scrunched up. criss crossed underneath my desk. too tight. too cramped.

i’m home alone.

searching for inspiration around the apartment. some kind of spark.

a new angle. a starting gun.

all i see down here is a dusty, plastered wall. nothing. zilch. nada.

naked in the tub. brrr. the faux ceramic is an angry swarm of icicles.

it’d be better with a hot bath running. strike two.

flat on my back beneath the bed. stubbed a toe, nearly broke it.

scratchy carpet pillows my head. nope, too dreary. but i’m getting closer.

straddling the chaise longue like an astronaut. i engage indica thrusters.

passing through the atmosphere in 3 2 1 …

squeezing into the vastness of my closet. i’m higher than the clouds.

i’m a bubble, a balloon, a paper kite. i’m disappearing.

behind these secret doors, it’s dark, lightless. a black hole. a time slip.

a tear in the fabric.

this laundry basket space station transports me to another dimension.

houston, i think i finally found something among my star-studded duds.

over and out.

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Nicholas Barnes earned a Bachelor of Arts in English at Southern Oregon University. He is currently working as an editor in Portland, and enjoys music, museums, movie theaters, and rain. His least favorite season is summer. His favorite soda is RC Cola.