TEXT: Mark had moved away from the flat when he was seven. As soon as the delivery address appeared on his list, it made him feel oddly uneasy. Although he had passed the red door many times over the years, he had never since entered the corridor. And now, stood at the bottom of the stairwell, the smell was the same as always. A little damp, but fresh. On his way up, he worked out that the ventilation from the utility rooms extracted into the windows at the top of the stairs. Someone, somewhere, was always washing, therefore, it always smelled cotton clean. He knocked on the door of number 12. He wondered how the place had changed. It had been 28 years. The decor would probably be different. But maybe the layout was still the same. He was concerned. Once the door opened, would it disrupt his memory of the place? In his head it was their home. His place. As soon as the person answered, and the door was open, the image would be marred. He heard footsteps. A little panicked, he bent down and dropped the package at the base of the door. He hurriedly descended, waited at the bottom of the stairs to make sure it was picked up, then he left.
A grey Berlin day, coat collar high, and tired legs. On the last remnants of a walk around the area close to our adopted apartment, an angular architectural discovery. Paul-Gerhardt-Kirche. It was unfortunately closed, I really wanted to go inside, as the light and shadows through the windows were so unusual, it looked like a painted film set from the Cabinet of Dr Calgari. Next time.
TEXT: She spent her days in the cold bright light, knitting owls. The bench was full of them. Circle eyed. When anyone asked her name, she replied ‘Eule’. When someone asked if they could buy an owl, she usually replied ‘One Hundred Euros’. Unless she liked their voice. If they had a good voice she would reply ‘Choose one you like. Look after it, or give it to someone who will treasure it. Keep your eyes wide, and take in everything you can during the daytime. When the night comes, and we drift to sleep, we hope that we will see the next morning. Think of birdsong in the early hours, they rejoice at the dawn. Never forget how lucky you are to be awake’.
TEXT: Jess sat on the curb opposite the building. Her legs stretched out straight, one hand on the warm pavement. It was a hot day. Unusual. Her trainers were dusty. She reached out, and imagined pressing the windows in on the building opposite. The windows were round, like bubbles. She imagined they would light up, and make a sound. She played the building, making patterns, a sequence in her head.
TEXT: The violent tiles and fluorescent light gave everyone a sickly glow, jaundiced, underground golden. Dark eyes, yellow skin. They had no wings here. When they emerged drenched from the enforced sun tunnels, the world would be cold, yet brighter than their blinkers could take. Then they would take flight, swift, into the blue and white.