Well, this is really more like prose four or five, except the others were postscripts added to the end of other posts. Nevertheless, read on if you will. If you’ve been reading my other fragments of prose, you might recognise this as from the boy’s point of view. If not, it doesn’t matter: take this short work as an experiment in writing.
Go forth and wait for the death, the boy was told. Before he left, he asked the only god who truly mattered what it meant that he had asked for life and been rewarded with death.
Clasping and unclasping dust-laden hands. “It doesn’t have to mean, it simply exists. It does not mean anything that the daf-oh-dil is yellow, but the yellowness is a part of the daffodil, such as it is.”
The boy goes forth and the first thing that exists for him is the smell of the rain falling from the sky. Then the sound of it, like a million angels conversing in their obnubilate chitter. And then the whole world comes into existence and knocks the air from his lungs. Neon lights and street signs, the chat-chit of a hundred chittering people, the bland taste of rough gravel on his wet tongue and the absolute black as he passes into the darkness.
He comes to the world again with a tremor which runs through the length of his corporeal body. He leans crumpled up and slumped against a hard surface like a discarded toy, he thinks. Like an afterthought. Like the paper put aside after the first read. When something else moves somewhere else his lips crack and tighten and bleed with the effort of speaking.
Where am I?
Something moves again. Just go. Come back when it turns dark. Remember that there is nothing out there for you but death.
Don’t thank me. There is nothing here but death.