Fiction: Get It Down
By Martin Hayes
My mind is going. Of this, at least, I am certain.
The carpet whispers secrets, untold before now, but always hinted at, drowned out now by the wailing of the cracks in the plaster that covers the cold, red bricks before my face. The world is unfixed, unreachable, unmade. I am me, here in this dark and subtle craft of being, but I am also the madness that creeps from unseen places. I am …







