For the first hour the prevailing mood was one of disbelief. People thought it was a dream, a metaphor, maybe. But it didn’t pass: gravity had just upped and legged it, fucked off to a better world. Some tried to make it home then, pushing themselves from one street corner to the next, going to work maybe, trying despite everything to get the routine back on track. Others played with the newfound lightness, flipping round and round a foot or two above the ground. Others simply let go: they opened their cramped-white hands, let their bodies rise towards the sky as the lampposts they’d anchored themselves to disappeared in their slipstream. Some screams were heard. Their tones were hard to define. Now and then one person could be seen colliding with another mid-air, and they would hug each other tight. You couldn’t hear what they said then; they were too high.

This story appeared in issue 8.1. Pick up your copy today!

Armel Dagorn is now back in his native France after living in Ireland for seven years. His writing has appeared in magazines such as Birkensnake, Paper Darts, and Popshot. He has a little place at