Stef Bishop is a newly emerging writer who scribbles strange poems and, on rare occasions, pieces of flash fiction. Much more the autodidact than the academic and influenced more by everyday observations rather than the giant figures of literature. His work has appeared online in Lincs & Inks anthologies and Underbelly Press. Stef lives in Lincoln, UK, where he sometimes draws creative ideas from the cathedral quarter of the city.

Lowry’s Ghost God

Up the gallery stairs, take the far right from the noon-lit landing
into a faded room to see it - Lowry’s painting of Lincoln. 
A typical scene on Sincil Bank: matchstick figures going
to or from work, red brick terraces, the canal path, 
factory chimneys. Seemingly modest and unremarkable 
except for the cathedral on the hill, made to look small
and grubby in the background, is presented in a casual way 
but ironically it adds to its grandeur, it’s ghostly 
and mysterious between the emissions.

At night, I look out the bedroom window, the cathedral
up high glows like fiery coals or a stone birth of blood
or some illuminated victory over the mouth of hell.
Other times it pulsates an imperial purple as though reminding 
us mortals of its dominance in this hill-city. I see the glide 
of bats criss-crossing each other from the eaves and I feel 
the cathedral is watching me. It was here many years 
before us and will be here many years after 
we have turned into footnotes of dust. 

Down the Steep, the late morning sun shines bright 
but clear over steeples and chapels, I descend towards
the high street. I start sensing the cathedral is following me
(and had been all my life) so I quicken my pace,
 I spot a pushchair levitating away from oncoming traffic.
A lost wedding ring reappears on a finger, a sweet-natured
dog suddenly walks without a limp. I witness
miracle after miracle after miracle happen
as people go obliviously on with their day.

Across the cobbled square, I think about heading for 
the gallery to see the Lowry again but instead I continue on.
The cathedral starts to grow behind me, a cloud-grey spirit,
nave and transept radiate; it’s bearing down on me 
as I run into the city centre where mission preachers 
are speaking of sin and salvation. A limitless ghost
is close to my soul, and I must decide to either turn around 
to give a surrendered embrace or carry on walking, 
head slightly bowed, like a matchstick figure.

Window Seat

You’re successful enough to have a window seat
and when you’re sitting snug in the nook
of your window seat, tapping away on laptop or phone -
you’re fearless, sharp, solution-focused, ready to tackle
whatever issues people bring you. You fling open
the curtains and your voice is a many-coloured
bird, daring to touch the wire and sing. When you’re in
your window seat you feel as confident and secure
as being in a corset-dress about to seek, face
and decry the problems of the world.

When someone sends a message from the field
near the substation, you reply and a smile sizzles
across your face, their heart soars in the air.
You feel you’ve caught electricity in an hourglass.

But when you rise to vacate the window seat
and step out into the critical outpour of day -
your boldness dissolves, you start to worry the views
you hold might offend or enrage, you feel you’ll get
villified and hurt, you miss the homely warmth
of your window seat. You sometimes see the curtains
drawn on your window seat and it triggers the fear
you’ll make the night unkind to yourself; you picture
incident after wretched incident, as if you’re still
damaging your already bludgeoned self.

And when you are in the field instead of someone
else, the slightest look or word could snap you
like a desiccated twig, you have no charge of energy.
You see the hourglass shatter an intangible event.

The Reoccurring Dream of Being on the Wrong Beach

After nodding off, the scene soon crystallises and you're on
a crowded beach among sunbathers, stripy deckchairs, umbrellas,
children running around, a parked-up ice cream van, towels
soaked by wet hair; and me, joyfully digging up sand, 
with our daughter beside us. This feels like Bournemouth, and having
lived there once, you're almost positive that's where you are.
You feel the south coast sun on your face, the breeze and tide
are beyond gorgeous, you feel blissfully happy 
                    until some altercation breaks out on the promenade 
involving a man drunk to the gills. You say something to me 
but I don't respond as if you're talking to a one-way mirror. 
The unclear drama escalates, more voices are raised, 
you try to show me a beautiful piece of sea glass
but l'm too busy watching someone get bottled in the head.
You turn briefly away, our daughter cries, you turn back again
                    to find everybody has vanished. Now, you’re alone
on an empty beach, the sun has been smothered by clouds. You look 
around, there's not even the sight of a gull. You feel there's been a shift 
in geography, shadowy weather has descended upon your soul. 
This could be Skegness or Blackpool, but you are too uncertain, 
too tired to guess what beach this could be. A cold wind causes 
you to shiver as you start walking, hoping to see anybody 
or anything come into view, and then you see           
                    a dilapidated pier that seems more and more distant
the closer you move towards it, so you stop. A figure 
emerges on the pier, waving at you, the figure is constantly 
changing and flickering but remains familiar to you. 
And the pier gives out the echo of families laughing and singing,
the sound soon fades to a loud creaking, there’s a crash
of dirty rust. The pier has unceremoniously collapsed. You look down
                   to notice it's spider season on this beach and they're crawling 
all over you, and before they reach your face, you scream 
yourself awake with waterlines ready to burst from your eyes.