Page 113

‘Plunging to your death, na don’t worry about that, here have a fox to think about’ said Andrew’s brain - on the very edge of panic. And, for a moment, it worked. Andrew was mildly more interested in where the sound came from, and who allowed the fox to fall than he was in falling, and that was good, well, in a way it was.    It was a loud wailing. The sound was eerie. It was uncomfortably reverberating in Andrew’s befuddled head. It was strange, in a remarkably familiar sort of way. ‘Perhaps it’s not a fox then, a banshee, but we’re not in Ireland, do we have banshees in Kent.’ Andrew argued to himself, nicely keeping his mind from its and his body’s sudden death. Those agonising banshee/fox screams seemed to last an eternity. They threatened to become a permanent fixture in Andrew’s conscious reality. Maybe they had. Maybe this was hell, and for all eternity Andrew would hear the noisome screech of the fox, well vixen, for Andrew remembered that it was vixens, and not foxes, which screeched.    On an altogether different plane of reality (that is to say the consensus reality many of we humans share), barely a few moments had passed. And, as the cliché goes, Andrew found that the scream was issuing from his own mouth. ‘Bugger’ was all he could think in response to this news.    Andrew continued to fall, and he continued to scream.    The wind rushed past. It carried Andrew’s voice upwards and away into profoundly unpleasant skies. Andrew’s body continued to plunge at a constant rate downwards - thanks to good ole gravity which was entirely efficient but not exclusively Andrew’s best mate at the time. Andrew was never good at maths. If he were to reckon, he might have said that his descent was at the rate of bloody fast feet per second, per second and cold, bloody cold, maybe even colder than that.    He fell with his arms crossed, desperately clinging onto his black nylon, padded, winter jacket and barely clinging onto his sanity. Andrew was unsure if holding the jacket was to prevent it catching the wind, as he plummeted towards the winter wind ruffled lake, or out of a desperate need for comfort, any kind of comfort, in that most fraught of situations – quite probably the latter, for at moments like that you don’t reason - you panic.    The screaming stopped.    Curiosity got the better of Andrew.    His previously falling body seemed to linger, momentarily, in midair. He could sense his body start to relax.    Andrew had just enough time to see the darkened water of a lake inches from his face. He caught sight of himself, grimacing, in the black water’s mirrored surface, practically drowning.   Then...    Then Andrew was jerked upward, back into the sky.   More adrenalin.   More cold. 113

LIJLA Vol.2, No.1 February 2014

Profile for Sacred Heart College

LIJLA Vol. 2 No. 1 Feb. 2014  

Short Fiction/Poetry/Visual Arts/Tanka by James Wall, Shanta Acharya, Billy O'Callaghan, Henry Stindt, George Szirtes, Kala Ramesh, Catheri...

LIJLA Vol. 2 No. 1 Feb. 2014  

Short Fiction/Poetry/Visual Arts/Tanka by James Wall, Shanta Acharya, Billy O'Callaghan, Henry Stindt, George Szirtes, Kala Ramesh, Catheri...

Profile for lijla
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