The Sky

Noah Randall, Guest Editorial

The sky had reached that moment where you can’t tell whether it’s black

or blue 

and his hands were cold from the water– 

they were deceivingly numb, leading him to believe they could function,

but the notes he plucked became increasingly distorted


They still danced in his head to that upbeat tune

They sang till their throats were sore 

The melody he tried to remember 

The memory he tried to forget 


His body remained motionless except for his clumsy weakened fingers 

that tried to find where the missing notes had gone…

his eyes were tired but remained open 

so that he could continue staring at nothing. 


His mind was elsewhere.

His hands were working themselves– 

blind automatons they were,

only ever alerting him when they thought they found what he sought…


His lungs took in the stagnant air 

in rare deep breaths

and he held the air tight in his lungs until he finally remembered to release it 

only to take it back up again.


It wasn’t painful

It wasn’t pleasurable 

It wasn’t really 



His world seemed alarmingly definite.

Yet he could still not comprehend.

He was tired of the ambiguity.

But did not want to bear the burden of the truth.


If he wanted, the melody could ring clearly through his head with the strength of a churches choir–

but he seemingly chose to let his fingers struggle.

As if he didn’t want to remember it but instead watch his fingers trick themselves in composing it 

and call it their own 


Maybe that would help.

But he knew it wouldn’t. 

he remained in that nebulous no-man’s land

Devoid of profound thought or feeling…


He slumped there for a while…

Who knows how long…

Until his stomach ached of hunger

and he slowly started to stir…

He found his fingers were no longer cold,

He blinked repeatedly to wet his eyes.


He lay down his instrument,

rose to his full height,


and went to fetch dinner