Wayward Rebellion

William pushed his feet forward to get the next cosy stall sitting on the ice of the Thames. Sellers had  perched their little beige tents made of little more than fabric, sticks and string two days ago and there  was no way of knowing when they would pack back up again. He was determined to make the most of  the tuppence the men guarding the algae-covered steps had charged him to come down onto the solid  river and the tuppence they would inevitably charge him to climb back up. He narrowly avoided the carefree  children chasing after a football; they pounded relentlessly on the ice, so sure of its thickness. The frost  fair had people wrapped up warm and burning logs right there on the river. Puppet shows gathered large  crowds. Music filled the air. He stopped to listen to the musicians, noticing their delight as people flicked  coins into their basket. The reedy music was punctuated by a crack. A careless stallholder had drop...

The bird was definitely dead. It was lying on the dirty white box in the gap by the back fence. The girl  had snuck down there while her sister sulked on the swings and in the house her parents were arguing. She wanted to move the mess of feathers from her hidey-hole, so picked up a damp stick from  the mud  and poked it. It was limp and brown but easy to push off the box and out of sight, leaving behind only a  small stain on the off-white plastic. Amongst the dead leaves she couldn’t see where it fell, but still the  little bird invaded her thoughts. It was as if one once-beady eye was watching her, accusing her of an  injustice. “I didn’t kill you. Why are you blaming me?”  The bird kept its silence. “Why did you die in my garden?”  The bird stayed hidden on the earth. She looked to the cloudless blue sky above and wished she escape upwards out of the dank hole. -WR

When I first arrived in the city, it felt entirely normal. People went to work: returned from work. They performed  their normal tasks then went to their usual leisure activities. I walked among them as if I belonged. I sat down  for lunch as the sun was at its peak, the sky was so bright - too bright. Every building reflected and magnified  the sun’s rays. I looked to the ground to try and give my stinging eyes a break, but the roads shone just as bright. I glanced at the people around me to see if they too felt the burn of the light, but they simply continued with their  day. Footsteps ground against the pavement. Like glass against glass. Nobody seemed bothered that the soles  of their feet eroded a fraction with every step. Nobody even glanced at the shining collections of sand in the  crevices from years at the daily grind. -WR

I can focus on your face if I try, or on a cloud, or a tree. Instead my eyes would rather glaze with  hazy filter to turn my gaze inward, to tick, to dream. I can hardly hear the words as they leave your lips,  they make no mark on me. I must take a white chisel to my pupils, so that I may prise them wider. I  want to see the world for its beauty and light. I will taste the air and dance in the dust. Yet, come morning  a mist will form and my spirits will sink lower. -WR