Celia Darbyshire via facebook

Day 16: story time.

I hang here, swinging slightly in the breeze, as I have hung for years. Once I had companions – all different colours, sizes and shapes, all strung up for the bizarre purposes of she who put us here. She even filmed us, twisting in the wind. Now I am the only one left. Gradually the others have gone: destroyed by the weather, falling down as their ties have broken, disappearing, unnoticed. Only I remain. The bright colours of my ties have faded, my skin is discoloured, and in the last gales my spine became distorted. But still I hang here. How many more years before she tires of me and buries me, like all the others, in the big black box?
Here she comes now! Will she release me at last?
No. She just wants to take another photograph.

(The last vestige of an installation in my garden made for my Foundation Degree in Art.)