Spending time in this place away from Ellis and buildings has been a wise decision. My emotions have been quelled and my mind has been rejuvenated by healing waters. I feel I am recovering from the despicable way in which I was living previously. I am able to write again. I suffer no longer from the case of letha logica, the words now come beautifully!
But I digress. This is mere façade. I am no writer. I fear that the young Ellis now knows this. This was mere tomfoolery to ensure that Ellis and (I further digress) you the reader were not aware of my failings. Whether this was worthwhile or not I am unsure. Though I assure you I am who I say I am. I am the Australian thinker, Flip.
I decided today that I would continue to live with Comet. Poco was not going anywhere and neither was my apartment. Life here was more serene. The chance to be a travelling man was oh too tempting! I severed the rope holding the Comet to the dock. But with no fuel, the boat did not gently move. It did not move at all. Luckily Ramon had left some canisters of gasoline close by. The boat was obviously in storage as the tank was empty. I poured the canister into the tank hoping for some sort of life. With an attempted ignition of the engine, the boat remained stationery. The engine roared into force and then purred like a kitten. While I moved my hands over the engine, I heard footsteps. Small footsteps. Whoever they were they were walking casually. They became louder and louder until they were outside the boat. Inquisitively I twitched my ears.
Was it Ramon come back to his boat to get his harmonica? Was it Martin to take me on another journey? No. It was Ellis. The main observer, onlooker and analyst of this journal you now read. He was unusually dressed with a button down shirt and plain pair of jeans. His hair was not combed. I looked into his thick black glasses as he began to stop outside. I couldn’t see his eyes. The footsteps stopped. He looked at me. I looked away and pretended to be busy filling the canister I had just emptied. Silence.
I mustered up some of that new found adrenalin and inquired as to why he had blessed me with his presence. He solemnly questioned me.
Perhaps this Ellis was not as wise as I had once thought. Perhaps he was even wiser. Maybe I was not wise enough to understand his new motives. He had found me based on this online journal. He had recognised the photos of the beach and of Comet. Perhaps his study was completed. Ellis monotonously blurted “I know where Ramon is if you would be interested in meeting him” I began cleaning the canister under the sink. I did not speak. He told me he had found the man at a jazz tribute show. Ellis had met the band members afterwards. It stifled me, my father, in his 70s was now in a jazz band.
I remember the words I said exactly, “You must have told him you know me. Doesn’t that void some sort of confidentiality clause.” It was rhetorical.
“Your squatting within his property, I’d be more worried of you breaching trespass”
I told Ellis I was not going to debate legality. Though I was not angry. I was calm and diplomatic.
Ellis cleared his throat and told me his thoughts; “I analysed your writings and well Mr Flip, there’s nothing wrong with you. Just some anxiousness and stress within yourself. I would advise you that some confidence issues and issues of integrity should be addressed…”
I told Ellis I was not ready to meet with Ramon and no longer cared of what judgement either of them had. I thanked him for his suggestion of using an online journal. I told him what he wanted to hear; I had purged myself through changing my living. I politely told Ellis to leave.
Before he left he reached into his pocket and revealed a small red apple. He threw it to me. My hands were free and caught it mid air. He told me I was ready to peel my own skin now. Slowly and carefully he lifted his legs off the boat and was soon gone. It would seem that young Ellis was far too brash. Though all is redeemed with this gentleman. There remains no bittersweet emotions.
On the floor buried under piles of vinyl discs and old photos I found one of Ramon’s harps. It had a crack through the middle. It’s as cold and dry as I imagined it to be. It’s 16 holes long and filled with dust and sand. It’s a chromatic harmonica, I’d imagine early 20th century. With rust through its reeds and chambers this was an instrument that had lived through a greater epoch than I. The name “breeze” is inscribed on the back. It’s quite an antiquated specimen.
I went to the top deck and looked across at the other boats. I watched as a middle aged woman cut the rope tying her boat from the dock. Her young child holding the ropes and folding them away. Their boat began to gently float from the walkway and soon enough was on its way out of the water lodge.
I looked down at the harmonica in my hands and twirled it around. I crunched my fingers over it. In one movement I threw it over board. This was all mine now not Ramon’s.
I am still on the boat today. Yesterday’s events were frightful. I haven’t seen Ellis or anyone else in a while now. I started tidying up the boat today. I knew the song. It was a saxophone concerto from Rahsaan Roland Kirk. He was one of Ramon’s favourite jazz composers next to Coleman, Coltraine and the likes of Sun Ra. Ramon loved baroque and classical painting, he owned several inexpensive prints which he had left in the building that housed his old set of wheels. I tried to understand the baffling lyrics, free instruments and different brush strokes and learn more about it. I tried to understand the man who called himself my father. But I no longer care for jazz music or classical art or bohemian culture or any of those mental acrobatics.
Perhaps I have not been honest with you. Ramon never told me who my paternal parents were. He never told me my last name or where to find others with my last name.
Call me an ignoramus, a truculent bastard or a capricious individual or whatever your vernacular tells you to scream. I don’t know what you’d call me. Hum. I am a writer who hates visual art…. Perhaps a writer whose just degraded into the son of a poor man’s Nietzsche….no, that’s not me. Ellis, I can accept it. No I’m not that intelligent. You are more wise. Hell I’m a grown man struggling with what has been given to him on a silver plater. I mucked it up. I need your help now.
It’s too late to take an interest in those whimsical things. That ancient harmonica player is off somewhere shredding his lips on his harp and probably expiring. Probably off rambling about some old Rembrandt painting. I wonder if he has met that old piano player. I wonder if he has met Hector or Elizabeth. I dream if he has once come back to where I am now.
If there’s anyone actually reading this; there’s some ‘links’ on the side to some interesting stuff. Maybe you can get something out of it.
I climbed aboard and felt the boat sway with the shock from my body. I don’t know what type of boat it is. There wasn’t any light inside or outside. There wasn’t anybody home.
I lifted the plastic covers and punched three switches. The rudder started moving, the fumes started flaming and with a cough the engine flustered and stressed. Though just as soon as it started it flutteringly stopped. Great.
I climbed down into the tiny lower deck. I shut the door behind me. It was dark. I heard rattling cans as I stepped down the small stairs. There was rustling leaves and what sounded like terracotta cracking. I was disturbing this old boat’s peace. I didn’t mind. It was just like every other room. I lay out a table, sweeped some old debris off, threw some sheets over it and lay my head down.
I could sleep. But I didn’t. This boat was a strange and eerie environment. I hadn’t ever been here. I wasn’t quite sure what motivated me to get on the old Comet. Yes that’s right the boat was called Comet. My family had a habit of giving odd names to inanimate objects. Hah!
That probably wasn’t very funny was it Ellis? No it probably wasn’t.
But then I remembered. I went there so that you wouldn’t find me. You can look at me with those sharp eyes, you can do that insolent thing with your knife and your apple but it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t achieve anything at all.
I closed the top of old Comet to let the cold out. Feeling around I found a heater under the little stairs. I tried to plug it into the boat’s power source but the thing wouldn’t function. It just stayed cold and shivering like the person fiddling with it. With another punch of my fist the contraption sprung and started flicking and ticking. It didn’t light up. It was mocking me. I punched it one more time because I could.
I wanted to tell Martin that.
I couldn’t breath. There was no air below deck. The padlock on the latch was now stuck. It was rusted through. I couldn’t get through. I couldn’t get out. With a kick the door did not move. With my fist the wood began to crack. The stupid heater was still ticking. I began massaging my temples with one hand and clutching my hair with the other. All I seemed to hear was Martin and Ellis. Desperately I rammed my side at the latch and hit my head against the banister. This was exceptionally painful. I fell to the floor.
The door gently swung back. Its sickening squeak lingered for a while. After the silence all that was heard was the piercing creak of the boat against the dock. All that was felt was the gentle swaying of the waves. I felt cold.
As the squeaking stopped another sound began. A loud ringing thud; the metallic latch of the door fell off along with the sides keeping the door in place. Dust consumed the deck.
As the fog and old boat fumes began to clear I looked below and the heater began to light up. At my feet I found something that astounded me. As the light began to show, the floor was covered in old mustard documents and bare vinyls without covers and the labels torn off. I looked on the stove, there was an ancient old record player and a dated CD collection. Nursing my head with my right hand, I gently picked up one of the documents and put it near the light. My eyes were accustomed to the dark. It was a family tree dated 1785. At the bottom were two names Hector and Elizabeth.
I contemplate selling this elderly room. I no longer care for it. Full of old furniture, rusted metals and torn books. The carpets stuck as a bluish grey and is covered in decaying furs. The family paintings have fallen off their hooks, (but I never liked them anyway). My bed is on three legs, I’ve gotten too big for the shower and the walls aren’t sound proofed. The balcony is full of boxes. The floorboards are no longer in the floor. The red paint is creeping off the walls, the ceiling feels like its falling and the windows can barely cough out any air. My ‘office’ is full of information that I can’t take in. It all seems rather staccato and motionless.Perhaps I can no longer live in the shadow of what I have taken or that which has been given to me.
Still I can’t touch this place. Poco’s plastic bowl is still in the corner. There’s a foul stench from his last meal. His collar sits nearby. That was when I was another age and I was another being.
This whole situation with Ellis and Martin has me around the bend. I don’t really know where to rotate. Ellis hasn’t helped with anything so far. Martin was probably Ellis’ ploy! It was a trick I say! Ellis has just been an aggravator. All he does when I meet him is put pins in balls of elasticized butter and trim the peels off apples in my face. He needs to be beaten.
This writer’s block is getting worse! I can’t even come up with another adjective for worse. I hope I haven’t kidded you on this. I’m not even a writer. Are you happy Ellis? This was all you! I abhor YOU!
But it’s kind of funny actually.
But I remember. This isn’t my place it was someone else’s. The damned storage below remains in my care, I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone else. It is mine and only mine now.
But today I leave this room. I’m going to the pier and I shall stay on the boat for a time.
I had a fascinating conversation with Martin the taxi driver the other night. It was a long ride. I was on my way back from seeing the new rendition of ‘Exit the King!’(My favorite of Ionesco’s theatre of the absurd) and I couldn’t help but have an intriguing conversation with this rugged man. Usually during the drive I attempt to read a book and wait till the streetlights briefly pass so that I may read in fleeting interludes of light. My eyes have become accustomed to this over time. Though this time I did not feel the need for reading, nor did I have a good book. Instead I had a sage pilot giving me safe passage to new knowledge…What a terrible line…
He told me how his “wonderful, amazing, simple” daughter had recently attained qualifications in psychology. Martin looked at me, with both hands on the wheel, “I asked her what does she know about human behaviour! So she turns to me and says,“Not as much as you pop!” Ahh, the taxi driver, an occupation paid to observe and nurture human behaviour. He’ll give you advice, he’ll pat you on the back, but nobody rides for free.
Hmmm.
Martin and I discussed a myriad of topics. The similarity of opinions we shared would have shocked that base ‘human’ Ellis. Ellis would never have thought there’d be another like me! We pontificated on the hoodlums populating the streets. Whether Samuel or Eugene were better playwrights and why institutions feel the need for indoctrination rather than education. At every point of conversation Martin lifted his left hand and knew the words. It was like he was repeating the words to a song he had heard before or a song he had previously sung. His words were all knowing on these walks of life. I thought I had found the words to live by. Sentences that were left unsaid by that insolent drunken old man sitting by the piano.
He seemed wise for a chauffeur. I could get along with Martin. With his blue vein hands pointing towards me, he said “you know folks often tell me if I didn’t listen to myself I could be CEO of Macquarie bank! But I don’t. I’d rather have my name. Nobody forces their agenda on mine!” I did like Martin!
I felt a bond with this man who I had known for a short time. So I told Martin about Ellis. I told him about the snobby tie, the puncy attitude and the grotesque, varicose vein hands. The notepad, paper and the masks he wears. I told Martin that Ellis was nobody. I told Martin about his undying adoration of Mr Beefheart his mockery of history and some other things I shan’t say here.
The car was silent. Martin didn’t raise his finger or say a word. His eyes fixated on the road. The words were there, but he didn’t seem to care. He looked as if he’d heard it all or he had heard enough. Still staring Martin inquired, “right up here then?” I told Martin to stop the car. I paid him 24.50. Opened the door. Closed the door. He didn’t know. Neither did I. Probably neither will you. I walked to my apartment. I didn’t like Martin.
Everything is fine now. The roads are tied and the plots are ended. This is a tribute to Ellis. This is the “piece of work”.
Here is some nice ambient jazz, ‘Hat and beard’ from Eric Dolphy.
As Domino held his arms behind his head and lay on his flat bunk, his mind began to wander back into the City he had now left behind. Through the mudded swamp of his memory, he remembered the seedy underbelly that some would call home, other’s hell. He always described city life as ‘fast automobiles, hot dames and lots and lots of moullah”. The neon lights, the silhouetted skyscrapers, it all seemed so distant now. He was far away, locked within a cell that easily contained him. Each day, the walls seemed to close in on him, Domino sometimes did not know where he was.
Suddenly Domino’s mind flashed, he sat up. A perfectly shaped face, it was the undertaker in Domino’s book. An undertaker in the form of a shamus named Detective Michael Morrison. He wanted to stand up and tell of what happened, scream it loud, though he could not. Instead he was to remain within his cell with nowhere else to go.
Domino looked above as the hair of his cell-mate flopped over the railing. His cell-mate’s hair had the same dark streaks that Valery Vestibule had. All he seemed to remember of Vestibule was that she was the woman who had cursed him. Everything else had been forgotten in time.
Though Domino did remember the events of the night that had damned him. He was led unknowingly into something he could not comprehend, its’ guise too great and large for a small minded being. He was one man, controlled by large organisations in a city bigger than he would ever try or hope to be.
Domino’s companion had taken care of the necessary individuals who had stood in the way of the Syndicate’s objectives. As far as Domino was concerned “those guys don’t deserve discussion, any enemy isn’t worth a second thought” Some of ‘those guys’ had been swept underneath detection, as if they never existed while others had been given, in Domino’s words, a “non verbal talking to”. All that stood in their way now was another man in a big city, but for one man to find another in a metropolis could be trying, at least that’s what Dom thought.
Vestibule led the way, explaining that they had received a tip off that there was a witness to her actions. Valery’s earlier crimes had not gone unnoticed. Lurking within the darkened streetlights, posing as one of the people; Morrison was on the look out, Domino and his escort were wanted. Her crimes on behalf of the Syndicate had left a mark that was not appreciated by the law’s side.
Domino’s hard, black leather jacket seemed to be a part of him as he struggled behind his companion, following the path of the rusted streetlights. Determined, fearless and headstrong, he went into what he thought he understood. His companion kept a distant proximity. The superiors had informed of the place he was to meet; it was at the end of the lights. The job was almost done; the Syndicate would soon have no enemies and complete control of all its dealings. Domino’s dirtied boots stopped at the end of the concrete, as they arrived at the extraction point. He could not remember what was going through him. It seemed to be adrenaline.
Domino’s companion left his side and leaned on the nearby abandoned building. Domino remembered the polluted site. The streetlights were bent and broken, the trees had fallen and the power lines were cut. The walls were crumbling and the lids of the sewers were wide open. This was a part of the neighbourhood, Domino felt at home and fine. This was his neck of the woods.This place was better than where he was now.
Domino noticed in the near distance, a car pulling up on the black bitumen. The man noticed the dark silhouettes leaving their shadow of transportation. Their boots tapping the floor as they came towards Domino, this was no pick up and drive by deal. Domino had never seen his superior’s eyes, they were shrouded by thick black glasses. They could have been anyone. The Superiors stopped, Domino’s companion calmly leaning on the wall.
Without a sound one of the Superiors let go of a piece of paper that flew around in the smog ridden air. On the note was a name; Marco Mile and an address.
Domino didn’t remember how, but he and his companion had arrived at the address. As one memory ended, another seemed to appear. Domino looked over at where his companion stood, watching as she stared at the floor. He was unsure if her stare was out of remorse or determination. Domino had been given the task to destroy the only link to his companion’s actions. Domino was to erase the individual from the record. Silently the men in glasses had disappeared.
Domino walked over to the wall in the blackened neighbourhood. There was no-one else nearby in the darkened streets of suburbia. The silence of that night before destruction was wrought still ringed in his ears. Valery had kept her distance, but as she now walked in front she turned to Domino. Domino looked down at her, staring into her eyes, they did not meet his. Vestibule clutched that weapon designed to kill as if it were a part of her. It wasn’t clear if she understood, or if she even knew why she was in this business. But Valery Vestibule seemed an ambitious one, not the slightest waver of charm about her presence. She just stared over the horizon. Domino felt it better than to waste his time with her, though he did have the opportunity. Looking away, Valery nodded at the building behind the diminishing light. Domino was intrigued that his companion seemed to understand the mission but had not read any relevant information. He remembered thinking “must’ve been ladies’ intuition”
Domino watched his footing, stepping up the stairs with passing grace trying to hide the malevolence of it all. With his worn gloves he clutched the door handle and his grace was gone. Looking back to where she was standing, she was gone. The street lights in the distance were off, darkness now roamed the streets. The Syndicate had put their part of the plan in action. Domino looked at the worn wooden door, it had the right numbers but something didn’t add up. He didn’t know at the time, but he would later discover that he was the outspoken outsider, the figure he was to destroy the innocent victim. Standing at that doorstop, it was his time to rise or fall, Domino didn’t understand anything else.
Without thinking deeply into it he inhaled what could have been his last breath. The door swung forth with fiery force as Domino’s boot kicked through. As the door crumbled with his force, he could no longer recall the events of that night. The scene seemed to be engulfed by encircling white walls. All seemed buried in covered consciousnesses.
He was now back in his soiled cell. Domino felt uneasy, his memories had been forgotten in time. All he remembered was the feeling of excitement and jubilation quickly turning to sorrow. He did not understand how his new persona had grasped him, how it had consumed him. It all seemed a blur. His hands began to tremble, running through his hair, he began to shiver.
Just as one memory faded, another became clearer. With a flash, he remembered standing in a room, unable to move. The lights were on. It was as if he were back there.
Domino looked at the ceiling and watched as the fan twirled around the light from outside. He could smell the stench of blood. It was Mr Mile lying motionless next to his feet. It was enough to break any other, though Domino stood still. He was no longer a member of a syndicate, he was an executioner called to do his duties and his duty was done.
The sound of sirens told him of what he was and what he needed to do. Looking at the mistaken man, he opened the barrel of his gun and loaded three bullets; it was all he would need to kill another man.
At the sound of footsteps, the hitman spun around with his gun pointing point blank range at his companion. He did not know it yet, but she still clutched her gun also, its barrel crammed into his abdomen. Under the fading light of the lone lamp, the shadows showed the detective. Domino now remembered.
At the tip of a hat, Detective Michael Morrison stepped through the broken doorway. He had gotten to Valery Vestibule. Face to face, Domino looked into his companion’s eyes. Vestibule looked away. There was no call. She was no ally of Domino’s but the bringer of damnation. The detective’s hat obscured all facial features. At its removal, Morrison’s long black locks came tumbling down. The thick black glasses were removed.
Morrison revealed a lighter and a case, with a flick of the lid and the pick of a prime coffin nail in the form of a cigarette, Detective Morrison blew rings of smoke in Domino’s face. With a smirk through his perfect white smile and piercing eyes, Morrison remarked, “Don’t worry Dommy boy, you have done well. It’s only a matter of days before the Syndicate belongs to us. This City will soon lie in dust and ashes where it belongs” with Valery still holding the gun firmly, Domino noticed that they made quite a pair.
He remembered what he was told. Marco had been killed, but it didn’t matter. The police had already questioned him and he had refused to talk. His life was meaningless, he and Domino mere pawns in a game neither of them could comprehend. The whole ordeal, an elaborate hoax by the authorities acting as the Syndicate Domino had never seen. Led like a child to commit new wrongs to be used as evidence against the Syndicate. Domino was now the first link to their elusive cover up actions. With bullets spilled and blood splattered in a silhouetted show down, Detective Morrison had his man and soon would control the Syndicate.
Today I’ve decided to stay in the apartment, take some time off and talk to you about my new writing. Yesterday was an annoyance. I had to see that fool Ellis at the Exhibition center. He was dressed in his theater best to see a simple collection of the opinions of some fine historians. With his horrendous bow tie and ‘flattering’ trousers he was practically begging for a beating! I didn’t want to have to see that sleaze bag or smell his putrid stench! I never did. He should be so lucky I don’t mention his family on this blog! That damn Ellis is all lies and conspiracy. And still he prances around pretending to be somebody else and nobody fucking cares! He deserves to be ratted out for the parasite he is. He tried to tell me to “revolutionize my life” and learn to appreciate the music of Captain Beefheart more than any other. More than life…To be taken somewhere else. What a pretentious, precocious sniveling little rat! I had none of his opinion and told the dunce where to go! That man absolutely infuriates me!
Perhaps I can recommence writing on my new “work”. Perhaps you have a semblance of interest? Your obviously not interested. It’s a piece I’ve been working on for quite some time…I will write about it later. Ellis has driven me to an end here.I’m going to the pier. If any of you would like to reconcile me feel more than obligated.
Writer’s block is a troubling phenomenon. I needed some hindsight & inspiration. It was reason enough to walk down the circular stairs and open the gateway.
Hesitant, I slowly lifted my arms and pulled the lever. Blinking and bouncing the lights shine life on a forgotten darkened space.They continue to flicker as the old grates in the door slowly begin to roll upwards. It sounds like an incessant tapping. In an instant the sound takes me back. Call it a pleasant distant memory or a disheartening nostalgia. The door comes to a halt the lights still tripping. Everything remains still. Motionless as it was when I was last here. Rotting yellow letters lie spread across the floor. I look above and the windows are cracked and shattered. There’s a faint stream of light coming through. The light fleetingly shines through the darkened ends of the room. They reveal shards of something that once resembled something else.In front of me there’s a façade of a dark patch. It was my father’s old toy covered in silver sheets and laced in dust. It hasn’t been touched in a while. it’s just as the man left it.Muddy and broken.
The following is a piece of writing I have been working on for a shoddy little publication. Perhaps I can get some comments on this?
Walking along the sunlit street, the boy was wondering where to go and what to see. He had left his companion’s house early. He had been told to stay outside, yet grew tired and decided to walk. He felt the sun’s rays upon his face, the bright burning sensation of warmth. It was a feeling foreign to him, but strangely in this neighbourhood a sensation he would begin to discover was frequent. As slowly as the boy walked, he began to notice a certain familiarity in the air. His body knew the way, but he did not. All he knew was he wanted to explore and disregard time. As he came to the middle of the street he stopped. The boy did not know why but he no longer walked, nor thought; he was still. He did not know it, but he would soon rediscover the time he had once forgotten.
He turned his head and was met by a dilapidated monstrosity. The structure was strange and had seen better times, yet it beckoned him. His body carried him to the gate. At his touch, the gate swung back, the hinges squeaking. The steps felt small and immediately he knew there were eleven. Next to the staircase was a decaying life that had looked as if it had seen greener pastures. The boy could smell the jacaranda leaves but there were none. As his feet met the pavement, he came to the shredded opening, the planks of white, the stripes of brown, the faded reds. The door seemed to open, invitingly.
The house was empty, yet as he entered it became complete. The light shone through the holes above emitting its warmth. The boy was silhouetted by the cascading light, placing him in an evanescent grace he had not felt before. But just as he had felt his loveliness there, it vanished in fleeting dark dim despair. The light seemed to fade as the clouds above covered the sun. He did not know what to feel, he did not know what he was doing, yet it all seemed too easy. As he put one foot forward he stopped at the crumpling of what felt like a small shoe. He felt strange; almost at one with himself once more. He hadn’t sensed this feeling for a time. The shoe reminded him of when he was five years old, but he didn’t remember. The light went out that day. His memory reflected this; evoking forgotten memories. His foster parents had always told him to never forget his shoes wherever he went, to always tie them and make sure they were tight. It seemed strange to think of such an arbitrary thing, but then when is an arbitrary thought not strange?
The wallpaper was in tatters, there were cuts through the wall, but in his mind, the walls were fresh, crisp and newly painted. The boy could not see the end of the wall; Shrouded in mystery. He made sure he had his shoes and put one foot forward. The floor creaked and squeaked as he walked. He felt his toes moving in the soles of his shoes, the uneasiness of the rigid footing. He ventured deep into the hallway sustained by the grasp of something and somewhere. The feeling was ephemeral yet lasting. The feeling kept his will. Time was no concern any longer. He could not see any further. As he stopped; the sound of crushing glass. He bent down and felt the floor. They were tiles, no, pieces of a vase. The patterns of the vase felt like the tiles on his walls at home. They were small, elongated, pointed and sharp but it didn’t matter. He kept feeling around until he felt something soft and decaying. It smelt like the dead leaves of Spring. The boy had never seen Spring and never felt its life leap before him. He picked up the stalk and carefully he stood up. He felt the dirt seeping through his fingers; the soft almost deaf silence of the sands trailing on the floor. He dared not venture further. The boy did not know where he was now, yet a part of him remained at one, re-united with what was lost.
Within the walls he heard faint distant sounds. The light was no longer. It was the sound of familiarity. A woman, a mother, a child. He felt it strange, he felt it soothing. He did not know what he felt.
His mind flashed. The images he saw could not be described. He felt his head, his face, it pained him. The sounds continued, louder and louder. Transfixed in his space, the sounds became deafening, screeching, scorching and sweltering. The sweat dripped down his face; he brushed his hair past his long scar. The boy began to step backward, his legs taking him from the horrors of the uproar.
Stumbling, caught in the floor his cane fell and so did he. The colours faded that day; the day he remembered, the day he was destined to repeat; never to return to the boy again. His parents had been careless; their child had fallen through the floorboards. As the jacaranda tree flourished in spring, a child lay motionless and taken away. Now, the boy lay, once more where he had been years before, the jacaranda tree lifeless.
