oh right i forgot to name my story

7/31/2019 Oh Right I Forgot To Name My Story

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Four hundred and eighty

One day we will be old and shrivelled, ill andbroken, with our future empty save for the cruelemptiness of deaths eternal jaws. We will look backon the days of our youth with nostalgic yearningand weep, fearful and loud, for the childhood thatall along was merely a fleeting dream.

________

At age eleven my father departed from the realm ofconsciousness. He left his notebook open to me; Irevelled in his scrawlings, finding truth where therewas none. Yet my dear mother disapproved of this.At page eight its leaves were silenced, packed up instarving cardboard and sent away. And yet Iremembered:

Music possesses a profound ability to createa sense of detachment from ones immediateworld.

After that moment I began to see and feel andhear things which I previously could not sense. It

was as if I had become some new being in a realmof my own fantasy. It captivated me. Songs leaked


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from books, seeping under the desiccated tan paperin untamed dance. Yet as I continued to escapefrom reality, I began to feel guilt; as though I wore aleash too loose. Time was gushing by and I was stillclinging to the rocks.

________

There is chaos, agitation and electricity in the air.People swarm across the city like bees in a hive,blindly flurrying about beneath a dying star.

I stop at the lights and stand next to a womancarrying a purple umbrella and trailing behind her athinning patch of brown grass. She stares, fixated atthe space in front of her, gaze stubborn andresolute, breathing thick and heavy like a dog. Iglance up at the sweltering sun. It appears to me asan hourglass, its illuminated sand trickling steadilyaway into the solid gold clouds. I turn again to thelights at the crossing, and am met with an angry redglare. The womans breaths grow deeper. Thesound of traffic whining fades into a state of silenceand is replaced by the slick sound of shifting sand. Ahot gust of wind hits me hard and fast; it slappedme with a papery hand as I ran towards home.

The bookstore, first.Theres something enchanting about the old

place. It is humble in appearance and as modest asthe smallest star; and yet for all its quiet, holds arealm filled with the loudest and most real of allvoices. A tiny tail of vague music trickles fromunderneath the front door, seeping out like aquamist.

I enter delicately, so as to not disturb the politestillness of the sanctuary. From there I walk straight

to the childrens section, for it is amongst theprancing horses, fearless maidens and innocent


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giggles that I feel most at home. It has its own song,too. It is a sweet sonata: delicate wings and thefinest of footsteps, gliding over a snow-white piano.

I find my favourite book to placate my worldlytroubles and then lie upside down so that thebookshelves stretch up into the eternal sky; tallerthan me, smarter than me, and bigger than me too.It is comforting, lying underneath the world. I noticethings I wouldnt normally notice; the spidery cracksthat crawl along the ceiling, the contemplative clunkof shoes on the floorboards, the song of a papercrane in flight. People step over me with little morethan a curious glance. It is as if Time is oblivious tome- peoples lives keep spinning round, but I, theone who hides smugly under the glass flooring, liesdevilishly disguised against its ruthless claws.

I glance to my side and scan the bookshelf, myeyes tracing lines across their humming spines. Ican smell their fresh stories dance about the airabove me, prancing in circles before mingling inwith the musky perfume of the ancient wood andthe sleeping dust.

I see Narnia taught you well.I jump up off the floor in shock; shock that

someone had noticed me from such a height anddared to speak. It was Reginald Young, the clerk asancient and as friendly as the store itself- albeitmuch shorter. He nodded at to the book in myhands with an amused grin.

Anne of Green Gables I say. Yeah, it wasmy favourite when I was a kid.

He raises a grey eyebrow. There is no reasonit cant still be your favourite, you know.

I know- I mean I I stumble over my wordslike feet falling down stairs, and then hesitantly rise

again. Anne Shirley isnt going to pay me a wagefor reading her story. Its sad, but true.


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He looks at me for a moment, studies me likean antique book. I wouldnt be so sure about that.He notions to the bookshelf. In a whisper he adds:Remember, if you ever need a place to stay-

Im fine, but thanks.He grants me a concerned nod before shuffling

away.I look up at the books once more, and this time

I am struck by a sudden subconscious realisation asthe titles meld together to form an episode ofnostalgia.

The Time

IsNow

I am hit by a wave, a memory of a dream. Mymind is quick to shut it away like a door on a safe,never to resurface, scolding itself for its moment ofweakness. I wasnt meant to feel that wave; I wasntmeant to remember. But I have, and I cant stayhere. I can hear some invisible song pulling me intomotion.

I can feel Reginalds worried eyes upon me as Irun back outside. It is dark and snow is falling; a dullwhite that lands as soot on the cold and forlornground. The cityscape is invisible past the tops ofheads; there is only the shade of night. And yet itseemed as if mere moments had passed since I waslast in the presence of day! I hear Time laughmaliciously behind the black curtains as it watchesits victims desperately attempt to outrun its looming

jaws.I take my jacket from my handbag, throw it on,

and march through the snowy parade. I try to


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pretend that I am in some faraway place, but for allmy imagination I cant fathom what those blaringcar horns and searing tyres could represent.

A chilling wind picks up and sings me a vortexof whistles and rustling snow-flakes. I stuff my barehands in the pockets of my jacket and focus on thewarmth of the feathers that sat layered over myneck. If I squint into the darkness I can just makeout home; I can see its tender glow guide metowards its music.

Pain pricks my finger; I wince and pull my handfrom my pocket. A paper cut? I reach back andretrieve a tiny note from the depths of my jacket. Itwas rose-tinted and sang a sparkling, harmonioustune. It did not belong to me. At least, it hadnt. YetI do not hesitate in unfolding it.

The earth is static before me. There is nothingbut me and the note. Breathing. Up and down. Ibreathe in, the paper breathes out.

Never leave this moment.The sound of sand slipping away is growing

louder and louder, and I can feel momentsgathering. I grip tight onto the note and squeeze myeyes shut against the gush of grains- something iscoming, this is it; I hear the sound of a silhouetteapproaching, reaching out with greedy hands andswallowing my face

and Im falling, falling into a symphony ofsound.


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Four hundred and eighty one

Flute song falls into the consoling arms of the harp,green flecked with a dabbled blue as it sways,sways, sways to the beat of some great passionateheart across a canvas of epic darkness.

For many moments I am the music and nothingmore. I have no desire, no thoughts, no emotions; I

am pure love. It is bliss. This is heaven. Perfection.But just as every day must end, so too must

every song. The flute dissolves with a final flourishand one last flicker of colour. I am touched by a shydisappointment that awakens me from my slumber.My eyes flutter open to a deep grey sky thatencloses me from every direction. Im in a hallway, Ithink, as I rise to my feet. Its dark, but nothing like

the darkness of night in the city. Here its almostreassuring, like a light at the end of a tunnel. And asI study the back of the wall, I find that it is. A crackof light has shone through from a faraway exit andfound its way to me.

Panic floods up and sears through my lungs likeacid. Im instantly alert. Where am I? Have I beenkidnapped? Oh, no. The man in the darkness, thespell of unconsciousness, the fact that I am stuck in


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some sort of nightmarish prison cell being watchedby thousands of suspiciouseyes?

White, disembodied eyeballs warily peer out ofboth walls. Not a second passes where one is notblinking; cleansing its palette before grabbinganother morsel of me.

I feel positively terrified as I bolt towards theend of the corridor. I convert my terror into fuel andrush past the flurry of white, focusing on the beamahead as it grows closer and closer. This must be anightmare, I reassure myself. Any moment now thefloor will fall from underneath my feet and send meshooting back down into reality.

In the meantime, I must admit that this isactually quite a brilliant illusion.

I reach the end of the passageway in puffs andwheezes; it takes me quite a while to catch mybreath, but when I do Im feeling so relieved that Ialmost forget Im at the exit.

The source of light is not difficult to find. A pairof binoculars are built into the locked door, and as Ipeer through them, I am not surprised to seenothing but blackness. Blackness and

I squeal, very loudly. Oh my! My heart almostleaps out of my chest. My shock quickly turns intoanger, which fast becomes amusement. Throughthe binoculars sits the cheerful face of a blondeman, who decides that it is a good idea to bring hispretty heterochromiac eyes as close to mine aspossible. I wonder if he can see me. I squint at himand he flings the door open, sending me hurlingthrough the air and face-first onto a wooden floor.Dust billows out from underneath me.

Cherry-Pie!Im momentarily dazed. I look up towards the

man; a dimly lit figure against the darkness behind


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him. He gives me a tip of his porkpie hat as if I hadwalked through the door like a sensible person.

CherryPie? I repeat, and rise to my feet.Yes, He replies as he strolls up and down the

creaky floorboards. Your red hair bears greatresemblance to the internal organs of the cherry pieI ate this morning.

I stare at him. He clears his throat and says: Iought to welcome you

I wait for him to continue, but he says nothing.Welcome to what? I prod.

What? No, this is the library!His words awaken the room; images appear

from his mouth like pictures from a pop-up book.Bookshelves sprout from the floor and growupwards into eternity, like heavenly plants. Antiquechesterfield chairs drop next to mahogany coffeetables, and a Persian rug slides underneath. In thecentre of the room rests a tome on an ancientlectern.

My curiosity is hit by a wave of vertigo. Theman stabilises me with his baton. Whoa there;steady girl!

I balance myself, but cannot shake away thefeeling that something is absent. Somethingobvious, like an impaired sense. And then I realise.

Where is the music?His mouth widens into a grin. I was afraid you

wouldnt ask. His eyes drop to the floor incontemplation. Ill be right back.

He runs up a spiral staircase and is gone forquite a while. I walk up tentatively to one of thebookshelves and trail my fingers across hundreds ofbook spines. I hear them whisper. One catches myattention; it is velvet blue, trimmed with gold. I

pause and wonder if I should be doing this.Nevertheless, I pull the heavy book from its home


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Its nothing to worry about; I just need to dealwith them. You like adventures, right? Ive arrangedyou a tour of Vivace. He looks at me expectantlybefore continuing. Come on then.

He leaps onto the giant tome and rises into theair, his jacket flapping eagerly. I gawp at him.Come on, get on yours! He says.

I hesitate, my hands trembling underneath thebook in my hands. I have nothing to lose. I squeezemy eyes shut and throw the book to the floor. I openmy eyes just in time to see it flutter open and beginto beat its wings like a bird. It beckons me forward; Istumble on and am instantly swept away. We soarout the window. I dont feel real. Its like a dream.Im flying.

My fear falls onto the treetops far below; I amovercome with exhilaration and disbelief. I throwsuch an expression towards my flying partner on myright. He laughs, throws his arms into the air as ifwe were on a rollercoaster. Abruptly, we dive downinto the foliage. Were in a leafy tunnel, the leavesglowing bright with the sunlight of morning. Wehover over train tracks, the air crisp and pure, as ifit were made of apples. I close my eyes and let thevelvet book carry me along. The wind tousles myhair with passionate force.

Im going to look absolutely wild after this! Icheer. My eyes open just in time to witness theConductor shoot into a wall of trees. I follow andcrash, tumbling onto the lushest grass that I haveever met. The velvet book flutters upwards, andthen in one swift motion, folds itself inwards into alittle golden hourglass and settles round my neck.

I look up to find myself sitting in a very tallforest. The canopy is green, frayed with delicate

golden sunlight. I hear rippling brooks, imagine


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them trickling like veins between the groves. Formany moments I feel nothing but stillness.

My attention is caught by a tiny speck of light,which floats like dust upon the air. I follow it.

I find the Conductor lying on an exquisitelydecorated bed, decadent with a hoard of satinpillows. The bed is strung up to two trees by rope,and possesses a wobbly-looking ladder at its end. Ilook from the trees to the Conductor. He gazes atme, bats his eyelashes, chin resting on his whiteknuckles. He looks very comfortable.

Now Cherry-Pie. My apologies for having toleave you now; though Im sure well meet in thenext life.

What next life?Im not sure. Sometimes I just feel the urge to

sound profound.Now if youll look to your left, you might catch

a glimpse of the noble Prince and Princess. Youllhave to be wary around them; they can get a bitheated, from time to time.

I nod, my head in my notepad, scrawling whatwould be to anyone else, illegible, words in pencil.

What are you doing?Writing notes.I see. He pauses. Your handwriting is

terrible.I chuckle and look up at him. Its because Im

writing with my opposite hand.Why?I thought now would be the perfect time to

start practicing.He blinks. Alright. Anyhow, Id love to stay and

chat, but alas, there is a shadow fiend headed ourway, and so I must make an unfortunate departure.


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He glances sidelong, motions me forward. In awhisper, he says: Dont ever doubt this world,Cherry-Pie. Everything you need will come to you.

His eyes twinkle; blue and yellow. Just like asunrise.

He leaves.


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Four hundred and eighty two

I hear a shout somewhere in the distance.Theres a rustle amongst the greenery, the slam ofa book, another yell. Could it be the Prince andPrincess? Surely not

I creep quietly through the woodlands and stopas I come to a tiny red castle situated between two

giant trees. It has many windows. Outside, twofigures stand by a creek, hands waving and fistsclenched.

He was holding a pink crayon, damn it!Youre colourblind, Eric, colourblind. Do you

hear me!?They are indeed the Prince and Princess. The

Prince stands tall, shoulders jutting out beneath


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perfectly combed brown locks. He brushes back aloose strand as if it were a villain.

You always make things out to be my fault!Youre always digging up the past!

The Princess fair skin radiates with cold. Ialmost cant believe what Im seeing. I dont want tobelieve in thisthis perverse fairytale. But her hairis gold, and I cant argue with that.

Im sick of this.Oh yeah? And Im not? Why dont you just

leave already?They both went quiet. Both knew there could

be no answer.My foot crunches a leaf. Their heads turn like

startled deer.Great. Thanks for being loud again, moron. Its

not like we dont have enough gossip about usgoing around the kingdom already.

Needless to say, I slip away back into the forestwith reasonable swiftness. My heart aches. Beingroyal seems to be a double-edged sword; on the oneside, youre rich and beautiful; on the other, yourea soulless wreck.

Trekking through the forest is actually quitepleasant. The grass is surprisingly soft and short;my bare feet revel in it. I make a game out ofstepping on the dappled light that streams throughthe canopy above. I am as carefree and lightweightas a bird. If only the city people could experiencethis.

Suddenly, a shadow slinks across the trees. Itssong is murky and deep, like a sinister swamp thatgurgles and growls. I freeze.

The thing circles me; I stare it down. Its thecolour of black holes, and viscous, wobbling like

jelly. It cant decide its form. Misery emanates fromit; it reeks of dissatisfaction. As I peer into it, I


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recognise shapes. Metallic outlines drawskyscrapers, streets, cars; the bookstore. Im drawnto it. Were I to reach out

Black lunges at me; I dodge and roll to theground, adrenaline hissing like a broken pipe. Ithovers over a nearby boulder. I fumble about thegrass in an attempt to find some sort of weapon. Iremember the Conductors words: everything youneed will come to you. Like a scene from astorybook it happens; my fingers touch gold. I swingmy weapon upwards as though it is a mighty swordand strike, bow to string, crafting a vicious melodythat sears the very heart of the shadow fiend. Itshrieks and retreats. It stumbles and stutters,shuddering like an earthquake, then balloonsoutwards and bursts into black tears.

I catch my breath. What was that?! Thatmoment of weakness; it was as if I had fallenunconsciousor fallen back into the past.

The forest seems clearer, as though a fog hasbeen lifted from my eyes. I tell my heart to relax, toslow down. It seems to have a mind of its own.

The violin! It smells like the bookstore, theincense of home. I smile at it, like I know my dadwould have. Instruments are the children of thetrees. This violin has the body of a willow, the faceof a spruce, the hair of a maple. I feel at once asthough I have had it my entire life.

What am I doing? I rise to my feet, but have nosense of direction. Is all of this just a meaninglesswandering; a quest with no purpose? Am I to followwhatever vague gesture materialises before me andhope for the best?

As if on cue, a curtain of leaves tumble downbefore me.

From behind it I can hear the sound of a mansinging off-key. Theres a splash and an exclamation


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before he continues to sing again. I go to knock, butmy hand slips through the door.

Forgive my disrespect, o Vivace. I muttercomically, and step into the strangers abode.

Im quite shocked to find that the singing manis actually a giant bunny; a tall, stagnant creaturesitting on the edge of a beautiful crystalline pond.As he sings, his words emerge from a mouth inmotion; motion that starkly contrasts his inertposture.

As I take the scene in, I can hardly keep my jawclosed! I am in an enclave, encased by sleepingferns and tangling branches, drifting baubles oflight, and colourful, alien plants with tentacleswaving at lily pads. Overhead a green pixie hastaken up a spot of fishing, his line stretching from ahanging vine into the glittering oasis. I smellrainforest shrouded in mists of water.

Childhood knows no age, they say, but thesame dont apply for wrinkles.

I tip-toe towards the rabbit-creature and stopbeside the pond. The pixie growls at me, his narroweyes glowing neon-green beneath a floppy brownhat. With a swish and a flick the fishing line isretrieved, and the creature disappears into theshrubbery.

What a grump.I settle my violin on the grass. I open my mouth

to call out to the rabbit, but he is still singing. Hiseyes are unsettling; theyre black and hollow, asthough they belong to a skull.

Her doll lay a tattered at the bottom of thesteps,

Singin quiet, o quiet, lest mama start cryin inbed.

Excuse me?She was a fine on her toes-


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Excuse me- Whoa! I lose my balance, trip on astone, and fall into the water. All with the grace of aballerinas daughter.

I knew shed fall in, Morpheus, I knew shewould! Its a new voice; high-pitched and squirrely.

The water is, to my pleasant surprise, warm. Yetmy water-drenched clothes weigh me down like ananchor, and my legs get caught in my skirt. I throwmy arms up and flap, looking oddly out of placeamidst the serene pool.

Whatre you afraid of, girl?Clearly not the water. The unseen voice says.I swim back to the edge of the pond and scramble

up. Water leaps from my clothing. I turn around,shivering.

That was a stupid thing to do. The voice, again.Do you get a kick out of mocking me? I say

crossly.It laughs, shrill and manic. Morpheus, quick! Her

heads on fire!I salvage a nearby glowing fruit for ammo and

scan the enclave. I spot it almost instantly; a pair ofbright green eyes that watch me from the shadows.My shot is a perfect ten.

The creature shrieks and drops into the pond witha satisfying plop. The rabbit laughs, his voice warmand tone genuine.

What brings you here?The Conductor. I say as I wring out my skirt.And what brought you to the Conductor?Fate? I dont know; I was hoping you might tell

me.Youre not very happy, are you?Well, lets see. My childhood is over, my body is

slowly dying, my dads already dead, my mums

insane, I live in a bookstore, and kids all around the


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world are losing their innocence. Oh, and my cat ranaway.

He laughs, wipes a tear from his eye. Ah, theangst! Be thankful that youre not a grain of sand.Although I suppose you might say, in the grandscheme of things, arent we all?

Little soul. A wise man once told me, lifes but awalking shadow, a poor player, that struts and fretshis hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more;it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,signifying nothing.

I look at him and raise an eyebrow. Thank-you,for that. I feelcompletely enlightened.

Do you believe in fairies?My eyes widen. I

The entire enclave goes still. The pond isstagnant. The rabbit is a statue. His eyes bore intomine. The question echoes through my mind.

The universe exists. Anything is possible.I do.

The rabbits eyes soften. He smiles. I blink and heis gone.

My heart is suddenly hushed. I am tranquil. Thereis a melody on the wind; one that turns the sunlightinto a lunar gaze. Its enchanting. It contains aserenity that of which I have never beforeexperienced in my life. I watch the trees as themusic comes closer. Its accompanied by a glow,soft and gracious, that makes the leaves part attheir presence. Through the sombre cove the lightsrise and fade, rise and fade, and become brighter asthey trickle glittering dust into the wild air.

I gasp. Fairies! My inner child is overwhelmedwith glee. Fairies, in the form of ballerinas. I see mymother in their tutus, see her posture in their dance.

The figurines prance delicately upon the air, theirshoes jingling like tiny fireworks on a new years


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eve. I imagine my father watching her, beingmesmerised by her grace. Were he to see her now,in such dismal form

The moonlight lit up their butterfly wings, brushedtheir hair, dappled their costume. In shimmeringsplendor and glistening flight their pointed feetfrolic in motion. They are not just in sync with thesong; they are the song. They dance for peace, for

joy, for love, for life. Their brilliant dresses smile atthe stars.

He would certainly find it saddening. She was sofull of love; her passion would overflow with everystep.

Their dresses are silk, flowing like milk, rippling inwhispers, their frilly chokers the feathers of thedove. Their masks are extravagant, decorated withcolourful plumage and marigolds that curl and twirl.Hair falls and travels on the swirling breeze, strandscatch the light; blonde, brown, red, black. And theirtrail. I remember the woman with the purpleumbrella. I remember the foul trail she led. Yetthesepristine beings, otherworldlythey leavewhite diamonds. They fall to the pond below andtransform into icicles. The entire pond fast becomesa plane of ice that glitters like starlight.

I become aware that my violin is sighing with anaching desire. Its almost buzzing. I pick it up andstroke its generous body. Left wrist straight.Chinrest up. As I slide the bow, its almost as if I amthe one being played. The violin is alive and I am itshost. It wants to join in; it wants its voice to beheard. The ferns swoon as it sings. My tears turn tocrystal, like pools that reflect the beauty before me.

In one final stretch, the fairies exit, stage left.


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Four hundred and eighty two


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I awake upside down, bat-like. My legs are hanging,feet stretched out towards the ceiling. I am a spider.I must be. Soft white threads tangle delicatelyacross the room, lying in furtive wait for me todescend into its trap. I bite my lip; reach for theviolin which I can sense is next to me, and play.

I hear a cough; the sound of an audience. I restmy violin down and step off the bed. The room,suddenly its right way up, screamed familiarity.

Timber walls, piles of ragged books, a portrait of mygrandmotherThe strong aromas of wood fire andlavender wash over me, and in a moment thatflickers and fades, I smell bread baking.

Im at my dads retreat. He came to this

cottage every weekend; to write, to play, to rest. Iwould come with him. He would teach me the piano.He would take me out into the woods to explore. Hewould make omelets for dinner; every night was theexact same dish. I used to complain.

I used to complain.Overwhelmed, I rest my hands on the wall.

Tears well and leak, tumbling as fat droplets onto

the carpet below. I look up and see my reflection inan old mirror. It shocks me; I look at least ten yearsolder. I turn away, turn back, touch my face. Itsworn by time.

I scan the room for any signs of life. Thereswater in a vase of jasmine; my favourite flower. Mysadness blossoms into a bud of hope. Ive seenfairies, flown on books, met a talking rabbit. Surely

Iyes. Hes here. I know hes here.


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Im filled with a surge of excitement that sendsme rocketing out the door and down the woodenhall. I bathe in the earthy scent of my father, mychild-like lungs bounding with joy as I run for thekitchen.

My eyes are closed as, by habit, I feel my waythrough the house. I follow the sounds of sparklinglife. My bounding footsteps become the beat of thedrum, the beat of the heart. I call him with my feet.

I stop, sensing that I have reached mydestination. But I do not open my eyes. Im afraid.Im afraid that the illusion will fade.

The tears are already falling when I open myeyes.

The kitchen has been frozen in time. A fry pansits on the stove. The fridge hums. A piece of toastlies warm on the table.

I brush my fingers over the checkeredcountertop; imagine myself collecting clusters of hisDNA. Yet DNA has no consciousness. It cannot love.It has no memories.

The house is warm; an ancient sun sends itslight through the curtained window and strokes myhair. Another ray leads my eyes to the lounge room.I walk to it. The chessboard we used to play is still inmid-game (black is winning). He might as well havegone to make a cup of coffee.

The house cracks its back.I turn towards my dads desk, which rests at

the far end of the room. I note his ink and quill,andis that?

My dads notebook. I shiver. My hand tremblesmid-air, hovers over its leather-bound cover.

There are no consequences here. I remindmyself.

The book opens.


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The pages rustle at my fingertips as I search witha desperate fury for the lines I never read. Myfingers are hot, set ablaze by Agni. Drums thud,violins screech. And then I catch it. The words jumpout at me in bold, like a rabbit eager to be caught.

Music possesses a profound ability to create asense of detachment from ones immediate world.

I take a breath.At the same time, it enables the listener to arrive

at a place of connectedness with nature; it allowsthem to become one with the river, the tides of life.

As I read, I realise that I have known this allalong. And yet somehow, as I trace the letters thatmy father had once so passionately sewn, I know Ihad been waiting for his word.

With a content heart, I close the book and rise tomy feet. But the house is still empty.

I swear I hear the sound of dust gathering. Its asad tune; it sings of neglect and loneliness, whispersnotes of misery. I follow it, retracing the steps I tookas a child on the life-stained carpet. It takes me tomy dads old piano. It rests in a sad little corner,silent and still. Unlike the rest of the house, thispiano is broken, battered and coated in dust. Theebony keys are chipped; some are missingaltogether.

It just needs a little love. I murmur, and sit onthe wooden bench.

Im almost afraid to touch it. The house is as deadas a crypt. Yet the moment I remember that this isall an unreality, the grand illusion that is life, mycup is emptied and refilled with courage.

The song begins with a C. Like light in thedarkness. Its a jolly song; one that my dadcomposed himself. My fingers soar over the keys in

passionate discourse, striking the pianos ancientstrings like lightning bolts in a storm. Dust kisses


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my fingertips and soaks up my melancholy,melodies intertwine with harmonies and-

Youre a little rusty.I twirl around with fingers numb as ice. There is a

female figure standing at the window, wrapped upin a transparent curtain. Her golden hair creeps outunderneath the drapery and crawls over to my feetlike a welcome mat.

Outside is a galaxy of flowers. The bees arerockets; theyre hosts to hungry organs. If you listenclosely, you can hear the space dust swirl. But thebees never land; theyre never satisfied. Theyre asdaft as comets.

Her voice is young. Its like a song, beautiful andinnocent. She stops; I can feel her smile resonating.I speak next, with a voice hoarse and clumsy incomparison.

And I suppose youre God?Her voice is eerily quiet. If Gods name is

Nancy.What are you doing in my dads house? I ask.Your dads house? She replies, her tone one of

mock surprise. The Conductor?My heart flutters at the mention of his name.

What? No! It belongs to my dad. Hes dead.The dead dont own houses.Its his.Youre mad.Im alone.Youre a fool.Im not.Then why are you willingly living in a prison

cell?The back door creaks open; we both turn to look,

anticipating someones entrance. When it doesnt

happen, we turn back to glare at each other. Herbrilliant green eyes bore through my own.


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Come on. She says with a smile. She spinsaround, untangles herself from the curtain andstumbles dizzily towards the back door, her longhair trailing behind. Her giggle is like the sound ofwind chimes twinkling.

I look outside. Its Dads backyard; theres theveggie patch, the field of flowers, my old bike.Memories wash over me, lure me forward.

Its time.I step over the doorframe.


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Four hundred and eighty three

Im in the innards of a stone worm. Its

chambers are as tall as they are wide, with jaggeddiscrepancies jutting out from all angles. I weavemy way through them. I learned long ago not toquestion anything. Everything that happens merelyis.

So when I arrive at a spiders web barricadingthe tunnel, I dont look back. In fact, I walk closer.Its as if Im dreaming; in a dream there is no such

thing as death. Im above fear.Sleep.I stiffen. The voice, echoing out from behind

me, is quiet and raspy, with a subtle note of venom.I sense the spiders presence immediately.

My instinct is to run. I throw my hand into theweb, try to tear it open. But its stuck. I thrust myother hand in, like a daft pigeon might fly into a

window, again and again.


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Give up.The spider murmurs, much closernow. Sleep.

I dont listen. Instead I struggle aimlessly,allowing the thick web to constrict me further.

You cannot win this war.The last thing I feel are slender legs upon my

skin.

clothes sway on a washing line

when I was five I caught a lizard in a Chinesetake-away container and we lived happily everafter for three hours and then he died

eggs sizzle in a pan

exasperated sounds of affection cry out on theloudspeaker and the class is silent because no

one wants conflict

three blind mice build a cottage

Dad buries me in the sand until Im nothing but ahead and then digs me back up with a yellowshovel and mum comes back with ice-cream andwe sit and laugh and sketch our names on thebeach

a boy steps into a skeleton

I was born 13,750,000 years ago as hydrogen and

helium and one day grew up into something theycall a human


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a song is born and a song dies a song is born anda song dies

when Dad died I used to lie on my bed with nosheets on and pretend to be homeless andsometimes I would treat myself to a bit of corner

ice-cream melting in the summer heat

everything is composed of memories- fragmentsof song bound together and made real by the

human stream of consciousness

dawn breaks and with it promises us one moreday

I close my eyes on the bus and let the musiccarry me away to Taiwan where the people

gather and the fire lanterns soar

moments slip away like dandelions on the windWake up, its summertime.


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Four hundred and eighty four

Cherry-Pie.

The Conductor takes my hand and I step out ofthe web. Its as easy as breathing. And while Imgrowing sick of being hurled around from place toplace without so much as a warning, I feel an oddsense of comfort here with this man. I suppose heknows this world better than I do.

Thank-you. I say.He turns to me and reveals an eye-patch that

covers half his face. I notice a black blemish trailfrom lip to cheek. We both exchange looks ofsurprise. I havent done anything to deserve yourthanks.

What happened to your face? I ask.He grins at me, like a mischievous boy from a

book I once read. The similarity is striking. Thatsnot a polite thing to ask, Cherry-Pie.

Ive never cared for manners.What do you care for?


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An honest answer.This would require first an honest man. He casts

me a look of cunning, which is compelling througheven an eye alone. I decide to drop the topic; heclearly doesnt want me to know. I try anotherquestion.

Have you exterminated the shadow fiends yet?He adjusts his hat, quite unnecessarily. Almost.I leave it at that.We walk through the passageway in

companionable silence. He twirls his baton casuallyon his fingertips, whirls it in the air. I love the soundof it; quiet, but with the loosely veiled twinkle of anorchestra awaiting direction. I become aware of hisephemeral presence, and my satisfaction quicklymorphs into anxiety. I dont want him to go.

His voice awakens me from my reverie. So, howhave your adventures fared thus far?

Oh. Theyve been interesting.Interesting? Tell me, why did you come to

Vivace?Icant say. I think I just followed the music.He smiles. You know, you seem to have aged

quite a bit since our first meeting.Says the manners man! I laugh to disguise my

discomfort. Am I really growing old, in such a shortspan of time? I suppose I do feel less agile

How old are you; thirty? The question makesmy insides turn. Thirty. I can remember being three.

Imeighteen.Ah.What?!Eighteen is when it begins. See, for the first

years of your life, time remains relatively dormant.But when one becomes eighteen, it erupts. Years

become mere hours.Hours. What a cruel fate. Why?


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Theres a glistening in his eye. Because for mostpeople, the Age of Wonder ends, and the Age ofFamiliarity begins.

And what age are you in?He turns to me. He stares into my eyes, past

them, as if he can see more. I know the answeralready.

Music, my dear. Music is key. A new song a daykeeps the therapist away, I say. He chuckles.

The tunnel reaches a point where it sprawls outinto a solid white. The narrow walls open up toreveal a wide chute. The Conductor walks aheadand turns right, where he stops at a power stationat a shaft near the descent. I tiptoe towards theedge and peer over. There is nothing but anexpanse of white space and black lines where eachboard of the chute meets the next.

I turn to watch the Conductor pressing buttons.He shifts a lever and a glass shelf appears on thewall. From the shelf he takes two grey garmentsand hands me one.

Put this on.I unfold it. Its a jumpsuit.Were going to jump down that giant chute,

arent we?Ten points to you. Hes already half-dressed, his

arms wriggling about in the mass of grey.Grimacing, I unzip the jumpsuit and change. My suitresounds with a satisfying whiz.

The Conductor straightens himself and raises hisbaton as if it is a sword. As he does so, my violindissipates. I gasp.

He chuckles. Youll get it back at the bottom.I observe his stature as he walks towards the

edge of the platform; thin, yet solid. He has a

masculine beauty about him, comparable to that ofa dancer. I wonder if he danced as a child. I want to


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ask him; I want to ask him so many questions. Buttheres not enough time. And I cant seem to brushaway the feeling that my interlude with him isalmost over. Because thats all it is, isnt it? Aninterlude.

He sits down on the pale ledge, swings his legsover the side. Come on then!

I join him. The downwards slope is steep, but Ican discern that it evens out a few hundred feetaway. I feel as if Im a jumper about to slide down alaundry chute.

Three, two, one.Were falling.Im taken back to my childhood, where I once

squealed down slides at humble playgrounds. Butthisis epic. Its like an eternal free-fall at thespeed of light. Arms parallel to my side, I shootdown the tunnel like a missile, traversing the whitein colossal waves.

Ive lost all track of time when I begin to losespeed.

Ahead, the white turns to green. I come to a dip inthe surface, slip down and closer towards the end ofthe chute, and am unceremoniously expelled.


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Four hundred and seventy-nine


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Im on my feet, standing in a vast and openfield of green. I look down at myself; Im wearingthe polished armor of a warrior and wielding aviolin. Is this some sort of joke? And where is theConductor?

I turn around, but all evidence of the chute isgone. Im sick of this. Im sick of all this uncertainty.I step forward and-

Green! So much green. It cascades outwardslike a tsunami wave. Millions of grasshoppers flee inmy presence, part like the Red Sea. Their screechpierces my ears like daggers from all angles, sendsmy body into a state of shock. I collapse onto thedirt and throw my hands to my ears to suppress theagonising cacophony of sound. Im besieged withtears.

Im not sure how long I stay crumpled up on theground for. Long enough, at least, for the terribleshrieking to finally fade away. I feel a raindrop slapme on the arm. Another.

Trembling, I slowly look up. The Conductor isthere. Hes staring out at the field, baton raised.

There is a wild wind that tousles his blonde locksand sends ripples through his clothes. Its scented

with the steady rhythm of bongo drums and thejingle of the tambourine. I clamber to my feet.What is?Standing out on the dry desert floor is a giant

hourglass, filled with sand the colour of amethysts.It trickles through the tiny center as if enteringanother galaxy. I watch the sand fall, captivated bythe way it rejoins with its kin in such fluid motion.

Z-zap!


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A surge of pressure heaves me backwards.Lighting flashes out from the Conductors baton andcones outwards, revealing a mass of shadow fiendsencircling the hourglass. I freeze. One sits atop it, itsmouth latched on to a sort of tube. Its bizarre formshimmers silver with the burden of my memories,and abruptly begins to vomit a purple substance.Owls blood.

Why didnt you tell me you never got rid ofthem!? I exclaim.

I didnt think youd have to worry about it. Hesends out another wave of music; this time thecrash of symbols colliding. The shadow fiendsrespond with a gathering of dark energy thatmaterialises as an orb before the Conductor.

Before I can think, I lift my violin to my chin. Thestrings are glowing like golden threads; my bowstrokes them with gentle caresses of passion andgrows stronger, fiercer. The bow plays sautille withthe strings. Together they strike, heated blades thatslice the air like sunlight in the underworld.

Our orchestra unites in fervent harmony, playinga chorus in acceso that sweeps across the field andsevers the rain in half. We play like this on thebattleground until the sun goes down and the vividmoon rises; which is, mind you, only a few minutes.As the shadow fiends fill the hourglass with owlsblood, time speeds up. But for what cause? Thesefiends are an absurdity, with no motive. It angersme. I play harder. The Conductors arms motiongreater.

As the song comes to a climax, I remembereverything Ive ever loved. I recall every moment of

joy, of peace, of laughter that has ever existed inmy life and let them fuel my playing. The

Conductors presence strengthens me. The shadow


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fiends dissipate, one by one, but the hourglassremains full.

With one final, majestic blow, the last shadowfiend collapses. A pool of slick black coats theground. Its over.

The Conductor and I regally slump to the floor inexhaustion and do nothing but breathe for manymoments.

Cherry-Pie...Yes? I gasp. My voice is hoarse and old. And my

hands! I have wrinkles, everywhereMy eyes shoot over to the Conductor. Hes young

and healthy, with skin like that of a childs. Im filledwith rage.

I want to yell at him. But I struggle to get to myfeet. My bones crack and my fat skin sags, and mymind doesnt possess an ounce of wisdom.

Im sick of this! Im sick of time, of growing up! Ijust want to stay young!

The hourglass-I dont care about your stupid hourglass! I

pause, think. What ifwhat if I refuse time?I consider this. What if I did? What if I separated

myself from it and allowed myself to be the masterof my own life? After all, time is merely a man-madeconcept. It has no mind, no body, no soul. Of courseI should be above it!

Laughter leaves my mouth. I will! I will say no totime!

As I speak, I feel myself growing younger. I canfeel my bones strengthen, my eyesight focus, myskin tighten.

No, Cherry-Pie, stop! The Conductor leaps to hisfeet and reaches out to me. He grabs me by theshoulders and looks me in the eye with a kind of

mild hostility. Refuse time and you wont exist. Thisisnt the way to go about it.


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My eyes flicker down to the ground and back.What do I do, then?

Give me your necklace.I had almost forgotten about the tiny hourglass

that had fallen upon me. I pull it out; the sand isgolden and is almost empty. I place it in his hands.He walks over to the giant hourglass, a dark anddrenched figure against the light of the moon. Heslots its companion into a cast at its base.

The hourglass lights up. The sand begins to glitterlike a billion tiny moons, and shifts and swirls asthough some unseen force is sliding amongst it. Atthe top of the hourglass, the sand begins to drainout and away, drifting into the sky in soft andgraceful movements reminiscent of the fairies I hadseen earlier. I watch in awe of the spectacle.

The Conductor walks back towards me and standsby my side. Together, we watch the grains of sanddance away into the night. I cant tear my eyesaway. When I speak, I speak to the sand.

This place is only an illusion.The Conductor takes my hand. Life is the

grandest illusion of all, my dear, but does that makeit any less real to you?

He sweeps his baton across the starry sky, andfor a moment, I can hear their whispers.

Appreciate the now. Look to your past withfondness, but not desperation.

I smile.I gaze at the twinkling stars above, watch them

glow. They sing like a million blissful angels, softlypreaching in heavenly tongues. The darkness thatsurrounds me is a blur; but it doesnt matter;nothing matters but the stars and their song. Star-songit grows stronger and louder, in achingly

passionate criesIt takes my breath away. And yet Ihave no need for breathing. I am no longer human. I


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cheer, eternally grateful for the blessing of life that

we have lived. And together, hand in hand, we will

step into the beautiful song of the unknown.

oh right i forgot to name my story

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