Descending jellyfish legs bolt down like an awning at dusk when the shops shut, a sheath of downing powering up the innards, keeping us warm, keeping our books lit. Each turn, we blast out the outside with aplomb. A balloon bursts but we keep fucking. We believe in the bubble, fix its tears. One day you are bleeding so badly I think of the approaching dawn as some sort of vast, overarching punishment for my hubris. When you’re able, we ride out and straddle the coast, calm ourselves with old Simpsons jokes: “It’s behind me isn’t it”
“No, it’s in front of you”
About the author
Ben Armstrong is based in the Black Country, UK. He is an alumnus of David Morley’s Warwick Writing Programme and has been featured in a variety of online journals and zines. His first collection, Perennial, was published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press in 2019.