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.
Penned by Flip
