There You Are

by Alys Hobbs

You wake in the carpark of a long-forgotten Little Chef. In the chain-link there are clumps of things that once had feathers and tails and chickweed is coming up through the cracks in the concrete. You wake in a layby. You wake in a cul-de-sac to a hob-knuckled rapping, but no-one is there when you open the door. You wake in a Stopping Place. You wake at the edge of a bare-plucked field with your neck in a knot, forgetting where you were. Sometimes when you try to sleep among the sweet-sour smell of yourself you pretend it’s not cars rushing by but the ocean rushing in, picking you up, bearing you off. You wake by a reservoir and rain is falling or the trees are shedding their needles in the coming of winter or someone is tapping, tapping on the roof, calling you out. In a drive-thru bin you purge your flotsam; the cans, the tins, the clusters, the clods; the dried-out wet-wipes, the gummed-up noodle cups, the buttons and bones and bottle caps. You wake in the crook of the woods, your fingers working deep under the seat-covers like you’re digging for something buried in the damp. You wake in a Welcome Break and the moon is a hot-white hangnail and you taste salt in the split where your mouth used to be. You wake by a lakeside. You’ve been here before. You wake in the quiet. You’ll go here again. You wake in the thin light to the sound of geese leaving. The windows are so fogged with your own breath that you can’t look out, but you think it must really be something to see.

About the Author

Alys’ writing has featured in anthologies including The Fiends in the Furrows (Volume 2), Egaeus Press’ Unquiet Grove collection, and Kandisha Press’ Under her Black Wings – as well as magazines and journals such as The Ghastling and Popshot. She collects interesting rocks and bones, loves to cook and finds inspiration in folklore and liminal spaces.