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Reece Jordan

Reece Jordan


Total Article : 219

About Me:18-year-old sixth form student, studying English Literature, History and Government and Politics. My articles will broadly cover topics from the current affairs of politics to reviews of books and albums, as well as adding my own creative pieces, whether it be short fiction or general opinion.

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Wound in the Sky

Wound in the Sky

It was a tepid overcast day. The boy, whom was only known by certain epithets such as ‘withdrawn’ or ‘solitary’, got on the bus as was routine for this time of a Tuesday afternoon. He went up the stairs, taking caution as to not rush his steps lest the motion of the bus unnerve his balance. Once on the top deck he scanned the chairs and, with a familiar throb of relief, he went on to sit on the window side of the bus five rows down. The boy sat very slouched and inclined towards the glass, peering out towards the street. This is what he liked: the figures of bodies blurring, indiscernible, as he was carried forward to home; the weather fit his prescription – he had always liked days like this. He would always evoke a memory with warm fondness of when he sat listening to his Geography teacher discussing how clouds trapped warm air. He could conjure up his teacher as if he were right in front him: his peppered grey hair; his lithe frame that made his suit hang halfway over his hands which seemed immaculately unused; his worn brown brogues with one of the laces invariably astray; his broad pink nose; his soft melodious voice that had undertones of distance, as if it resonated from an enclosed box within him; his deep penetrating eyes with rims of icy blue. He had quite an affinity with this teacher yet they had never had a full-bodied conversation.

            As the boy continued to stare out of the window, his eyes scaling the shops all the other schoolboys pushed and shoved to try and get into, he felt a faint tug on his vision. Stirred by a peculiar pulse he decided to sit a little more upright, looking more forward. He noticed as his eyes traced the outline of a building that it began to incline upwards, like a raised eyebrow. As his eyes followed this trace further he perceived a strange blip in the sky, a small chink out of which trickled out a faint glow of light. He sat fixed as this yellow blip expanded exponentially, as if someone had pulled apart the clouds. It looked, the boy thought, like a wound in the sky. Very soon spectrums of colour, all warm and lucid in nature, began to pour out like honey. And then, seconds later, from out of this languorous stream of colour darted more rays of light, this time more dizzying. It seemed to him like those electric lines you see in hospitals.

            He sat somewhat bemused. The strange rapidity of the outpouring of the sky had now soothed to a calm stillness. Out of his bemusement the boy suddenly realised that his hand had been outstretched on the window. He pulled it off and watched as the grey imprint fused into amorous pink, and then he rushed off down the stairs of the bus and out onto the street. Then, this withdrawn and solitary boy, with cheeks aglow, smiled at the approaching school children and entered his house.


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