Flash Fiction.

The upside down world.

She gazes at the sea and wonders. What would it be like to live in the upside down world? The one that she sees so clearly reflected on the still of the water’s surface. The clumsy mirroring as if on foil. The world pouring over the skyline and settling on the surface of the ocean. It reminds her of the coagulated layer sitting grimly on the top of soup. The yellow house, buttery to her eye is drooping into a watery tornado. The colours are blurring. The chimneys are smoking into the airless space. Bird’s wings are flapping upside down. Where are they going? She ponders.

The light shimmers brightly below. In disorder. The fluffy cumulus above her melt gently through the horizon, marred and diluted, swallowed by the ocean. The trees bob, losing themselves, intertwining, separated by horizontal streaks of light getting smaller and smaller until they are engulfed too. Where do they evaporate to? She asks herself.

She treads past puddles, inspecting which part of this other life they will convey on their surfaces. Past the extending sea. But it keeps changing. The reflections ebb and flow with the world around her.

Yet it is different. Because there, things are permeable. Floating like the messiness of her imagination. Her thoughts are never quite a clear image. Akin to the foggy distortion of this upside down paradise. She wants to dive into it. To be swallowed into a place where her feet mingle with the ceiling of a forest. On muddled strokes of green posing as grass. She wants to be painted into this landscape. Dampened and blended softly. Her colours oozing. Mixing.

She would be distilled with the water. She would breathe with the trees. And she would move with the ink. She would look up at the seemingly perfect and stable world and notice how it too changes. How it too is unstable. And how it too merges and moves and disappears.

She looks down. Her feet are planted on the bumpy tarmac road. Her hair is tickling her neck as it wrestles helplessly with the breeze. Her body a seemingly solid fixture. Permanent. She closes her eyes. She feels herself expanding. She breathes in the salty sea air. She feels it pour over her and seep into her veins. She feels it moisten her skin. Turning her to liquid. Inking her colours. Imprinting her on its surface.

Poetry. Words.

Calm in the storm.

The wind howls.

Growling, tugging unsuspecting hairs to and fro.

Bashing, pushing, and shrieking.

The rain pours in torrents, merciless, wreaking havoc.

Empowered, bold, loud.

Free in the noise, I run.

I squeal. No one else is crazy enough to be out in this weather. No one else would dare be struck by lightning.

Only to feel the rain caress their face. Only to feel the damp chill of their clothes sticking to their skin. Shivering.

Laughs stolen by each current of air. Leaping through puddles. Splashing, Meddling, Dirtying shoes.

Headlights obscured by sheets of rain. Warm glowing light. Shades of grey and misty darkness.

Bellowing. Drumming. Rattling.

Pulses of dazzling lightning. Emerging momentarily. Spectacularly bold. Presumptuous. Magniloquent.

Playfulness set free. Boundaryless.

Peace in chaos.

Silence in pandemonium.



Boisterous, Crashing.
Pulsing, raging.
Redefining boundaries.

Remnants of a blanket.
Open crevasses, dents.
Manoeuvres of a clumsy puppeteer.

A thousand tin cans clinking.
Buoys bobbing.
Boats rocking.

Flimsy, delicate silk.
Weightless yet deep.
Gentle yet underestimated.

Permeable stability.


My favourite place.

The car door slams shut. My hands touch the metal gate, lifting it slightly, pushing my way in. The waves are crashing against the rocks, demanding to be heard. Their violent froth threatens to hit me as I stop breathing and take in the mesmeric display before me. Icy droplets dance and play and perform. I feel so grateful my chest opens and I am at one with the ocean. I feel it’s bravery, it’s might, it’s gentleness. I breath it in. It breathes me.

I hear the shells and rocks crunching beneath my feet. The seagulls caw. The waves crash. It’s a symphony of sounds which are so conflicting that it should be overwhelming. And yet. It is soothing. It sounds like home. It sounds like a familiar song that takes me to a special place. It feels safe. It feels welcoming. It seems to not care who I think I am. I am here, now with it and that is all that matters.

I reach the grassy field marked by a lopsided tree which has been tainted by the strong gusts. It is so out of place and yet it belongs. My shoes slip off and I feel the grass tickle my skin. It makes my stomach jitter. I don’t care who I am or what I’m thinking. I am here. Now. I am running through grass up to my shins, my toes squelching in the damp soil. I feel the racing of my heart. I am alive. The cliffs steal my breath from my grasp. I no longer own it. It owns me. I see mountains. Waves. A hundred shades of green smeared upon a hundred shades of blue.

I feel like screaming ‘THANK YOU’ from the top of my lungs. So I do. And I don’t even look behind me to make sure there is no one there. I just scream and laugh and leap. And let go. I am home. I can always come home to this place. Where a million memories live. Where my heart dances. And even though I know it inch by inch. It is never the same. It is always new. It always hears me. It always sees me. It always teaches me a different lesson.

Thank you Reen, for being the most amazing place I know.