The plane hangs like a cross in the sky. It climbs uncertainly, laboriously, precariously. A finger of fire rises briskly up to meet it, to stab it down from the clouds, back to earth. I watch the fragments fall, scattered like forsaken prayers, and wonder if we’ll ever rise again.

Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. He arrived here from a parallel universe, where he was the most famous author of his generation. Sick of fame, he now seeks obscurity and his current standard of writing pretty much guarantees that.