The Well
By Ian Lockerbie
I hold my hand to my chest and feel an empty cobbled well. The top is on the surface of my chest and extends down through my back. The cobbles are the size of bricks. They get smaller with every level down until they’re gone. I press my finger into my chest and feel a wind coming from the bottom of the well. The wind whistles out of my ears; it reaches the pitch of a boiling kettle on a stove and pops. I can’t hear anything.