Skip navigation

My apartment is on the top floor of my building.   So the little access door into the roof space is next to the fire hose at the end of the corridor.

Christmas night.   We had eaten well the night before.   Posted the last thing I expected to write – even mentioned my plan.   Obliquely.   Next morning Py had left without me even hinting, and the Cat snarled at me when I approached, and threw itself nimbly out the window onto the fire escape.   So goodbyes were out.  

Left my place.   Down the hall.   Open the door, fucking Alice-in-Wonderland-style.   Look in warily.   Small dusty box of space – just enough room for the cobwebbed ladder (how long had she been here?) bolted to the floor.

Climb the ladder.   Slowly.   Silently.   Eight rungs – then the edge of the ceiling – which was now the floor.

(World was inverted.   Logic and reality, upside-down.   What the fuck was I doing?)

Couched in the low shadowy place at the top of the ladder.   Looked.

The space yawned out across and over that whole inner ceiling of the building.   Those infamous light fittings, set intimittently into the criss-cross of support beams and stout panels below me, shot up bright light shafts that hit the silver flashing nailed into the real roof, only a few feet above.   (Her view of – on – the world.   My world – at her feet…)   Those dazzling pillars and then diffused reflected light only made the darkness between blacker.  

The air was thick and heavy with dust and damp, and cool with the smell of things old and dark and rarely disturbed.   (Gothic wonder – under – over-land…)


Far corner.

Small dark shape, huddled against the furthest outer wall.

Crawled closer.   Warily.   Around the light shafts, over cross-beams and support pillars.   Approaching her.

She’s sitting, arms wrapped around her legs, face on her knees – child-like.   The red coat now is dusty and worn-through in spots, and the dark hair hangs down in unkempt festoons.   And she is still.   (Too still?   Or – too still…?)

Few feet away now.   Poised, ready (for…?)   But – fascinated.

She raises her head.   And (was that – was that a smile?) looks at me.

She says, very simply: “Hello, Jonathon.”





  1. Holy crap! What are you doing man?! Trapped in the ceiling space with her… Obviously you escape to tell this tale but still, suspense!! =D

    • Why are you certain that he escaped? It could’ve been a live-feed (post, edit, post, edit, post, edit …etc.)

  2. You are KILLING me..

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: