shoeb o x e s (PC!)please.

by shyster

Posted to Stories on 2002-09-14 03:02:00

there is nothing around here that he
recognises anymore. apart from the house

-It has been a very long time since he has stood
before this house.

the wind whistles up and down the path casting balls of spilling sand onto and into his white shoes.
his small toes feel sore from chafing and he has
only been here five minutes.
‘Why did I come?’ricocheted whisper unanswered
in his thinking ever since the phone call:
(telling him he was dead).
the screen door, wind operated, mocking old friend
slow claps the long absent boy. he is still except
for the shifting repellent memories framed solidly
by this property that steadfastly refuses to erode. everything else around here has:
the neighbourhood has become desert: sprawling
featureless, even the people have eroded away:
bleached pan-pipes fluting in the stinging desert breath.

-something goes-clang!-indoors.

He tunes in, catches the screen door and goes inside, leaving the keys knocking in the outside lock.
Quickly through THE PORCH:nothing in there.
BATHROOM:light clicks,dust piles in the showerstall/strong smell of father: too strong to be true life:
quivering memory hairs in panicked nostrils.
‘Move on.’ LIVING ROOM:
e.m.p.t.y.
He stops short.
In here he used to sleep with his younger brother on
worn bottle green sofas and stay awake, listening to
each other’s dreams. bright smiles visible in the pitch black night.

now just dry even unmarked floorboards.

‘Move on.’
FATHER’S BEDROOM-closed door.-SLAM-it almost breaks. flimsy.
FATHER’S BEDROOM: Consisting of threadbare rug, cupboard, small desk with chair, luxuriant double bed with wrought iron frame. He goes to the curtains and throws them back to reveal more brick.
‘He has no window.’ He stops to wonder at this.
Why is he shocked?he scolds himself. He knows that
this was not a normal man. Moving to the desk, rifling through drawers of dust, nothing of value-‘Why did I come?’-cupboard squeaks open to reveal an old brown corduroy
suit wrapped tightly in dry-cleaning plastic. he
throws it on the floor: to anger his ghost.
Smiling now, nothing worth taking, it is better this way:Glad. Turns to leave for FOREVER when foot knocks shoebox corner sticking out from under the bed.

He gets down on the floor and peers under the bed.
crowded view of boxes packed together. Stands up:curious now. Pulls up the bed onto its side and slams it over
onto the desk(there is much dust and the neat sheets
ruck up showing the old withered mattress): reveals
an arrangement of black and brown boxes packed tightly together: 24.

tips off the top of the first brown box with his shoe
to reveal: photos?of his father and a baby. is it he
as a baby?
tips off the second: more photos?of a toddler now.nappies.spit.gums.smiles and father is smiling too.

-His certainty of purpose is slipping away in the face
of this surprise find.

-Had he found these photos first, would the suit be on
the floor?

(it deserves to be there)

What is in these larger black boxes?
tips off the lid of the first black box: plastic bundle tightly strung with thick black rubberbands.
pulling them off, one by one(solid parcel within):
finally all off,
slowly unwrapping-crackly-sounds.
cannot guess?what’s inside,
Taking shape(very excited)can see pale and dark,

wait.

Iridescent Cartridges Of Shock Firing Off In His Brain.
The SEVERED FOOT of a man falls to the floor with
a-crackly-bang. He sprints out the flimsy door through
the dried-out porch and outside into the whistling desert.
Gagging. Wretched image emblazoned in
his brain causing repeating horror
‘Father was a killer?”Father was a killer.”No.”But what about the SEVERED FOOT?Jesus!-
His.breathing.is..starting..to..slow..down..into..deep…
even…breaths…allowing…him…a…cooler… head.
The sand seems deeper. He looks over at the car: the
rear bumper and the license plate have disappeared and
the exhaust pipe is getting shorter by the second.

-He is running out of time.

He runs into the house.straight into the box room:The SEVERED FOOT is still lying on the floor.
He tries to ignore it and looks at the remaining boxes.
Kicks over the brown boxes on
the outside and the life of a boy and his father spills
out onto his white shoes: growing up: happy faces, fairs, piggyback rides, birthdays, pets, everything that was
so absent from his sandy windowless shack of a life.
tears now collecting sand on his dry face. Shock/Anger/Jealousy?disbeliefgasps.
HisOwnFace now stares back from the final brown boxes: a football superhero, hugging his father around the
shoulders in padded kit, fresh-faced photographed undeniable JOY.
‘What the Hell is going on?’
and he swallows the dry sandy phlegmblock and gingerly
and then striking the heavy black boxes over:
Rolling out, knocking against the wall-cracklyThud!-: Tightly bound with black rubberbands parcels of flesh
and bones and nerves rolling awkwardly over scattering photos now that the roof has finally eroded: light streaming in and sand starts collecting in corners,
wind whips up these grainy KODAK moments and spins
them dancing into the sky: a maelstrom of undeniable
truths to his sand-whipped eyes and his mind screaming:
‘Who am I?”Who is this?”Who took these pictures?”Whose are these Severed Bodyparts?’
And he realises that there is:
One box left unopened:
big and black.
-The Severed Head?-
He kneel down and lifts off the lid and there is the
nose pressing tightly against the thick plastic rolls
and the lips smeared tightly against the thick plastic
rolls
and the hair matted down tightly over an indistinct forehead by the thick plastic rolls
wrapped and secured

-The house is starting to go quickly now, already it
is half the height it once was.

-Only the front of his car remains and the headlights tip towards the sky.

unwrapped.
He holds up his own head by the hair
Strangely calm, he walks to the bathroom. Facing the
half of the mirror that still exists he ducks down to
look at his face alongside the head as the wind whips up tornadoes of sand and deposits them with force against
the remains of the house.
REFLECTION:Shock. How long was he outside?
His thick eyebrows, his hairline, his strong features
have all been worn down:he looks desiccated, old and beads of blood are beginning to appear where the skin is worn
too thin. He has left it too late
He stares at the image reflected back of his father
holding his son’s head up to a mirror.


in an hour nothing will remain to testify that any of
this ever happened.
The thought makes him smile one last time.