Suspension

by Clare O'Brien

I want to tell you about a black pool with a still surface like glass.  I wonder if it will wrinkle when I touch it, or part like silk slashed with scissors.  Perhaps it’s a membrane, an opening into a room below.  Maybe it’s full of people, black and white like an old movie, drinking and laughing and dancing in the sweaty indoor heat.  Or maybe the blackness is solid, like a column of liquid darkness which will suck you under its perfect surface to drown.  And you’ll hang there, suspended forever in the dark, perfectly preserved, but utterly still.