An illusion. A box full of nothing. A flatpacked figment of the imagination
The straight lines of a pitch marked out to play. Or a stage, a scene, another world:
A wide plain, windblown, covered with clouds and cold.
An out of town industrial estate. Six O’clock and all still except for a red van and a single blackbird.
Or inside. Inside a room.
Inside a brick box from the nineteen seventies, a Victorian terrace or a neoclassical dream.
A table, square to the door. A vase of wilted yellow daffodils. Or off-white roses in a metal jug.
Two chairs, pushed back. A cup of warm coffee, half drunk. A pen, a dirty ring binder, a shadowy cat.
A place of possibilities, impossibilities, tragedy or retreat. Or nothing much at all.
Close your eyes.
And you’re back in the room.
By Victoria Scholes