I'll Not Waste Anymore Words on You x100
Marker on paper, 315mmH x 220mmW x 330mmB
"RECENT ACTIVITIES"
Danyel: Wait a minute… If Lenny is your imaginary friend, couldn't you make him whoever you want him to be?
Charlye: No. Lenny wouldn't be happy 'bout it. And that's not how it works.
-
Recent activities have been recorded in a penalty book*. Repetitive writing of a hundred lines, a forfeit unsure of its worth—for now, for the actions intended yet undone. What are you talking about? This is not about the 4 pre-schoolers who were punished for opening the damn door for a stranger on the street and humiliated by the class of 20 adolescent accomplices, having to re-enact with the bathroom?? door as of a hundred times. No. That was a ridiculous counter-action, too much a rightist. This, on the contrary, is voluntary; believed not that, of the thought that counts. More than 700 lines hitherto, a short story that may well be too indulgent for a proper reader. The ending yet unknown, the story can not be continued as the subject of the writing seemed to have vanished and banished from the author's castle in the air. Could the subject not been real, real as of alive and of tangible existence, after all? Úna Elfred anticipates the conclusion but all she can do is, wait. And wait.
"Kim and Jessie, they have a secret world in the twilight.
Kids outside worlds, they are crazy about romance and illusions"
If Kim and Jessie be neighbors at Walker House or friends at The Book Club, she'd love to hang out, chat about the outside world and be invited to their hideout. Úna had ready the-run-for-it-sack, in the last 2 decades it sat in the blue painted built-in wardrobe of o-eight-o-six on Coco Hill. In case of emergency, she had in mind, packed were the precious ones; death was a constant query and has recently returned. What were in the suitcase? Cutesified trolls with bright-colored hair in a themed land printed on both sides. A juvenile she was, ironically in defiance of death, she'd not realized until now. Little ponies and po-la-la-la-polly pocket paradise, some pencils, the best outfit and a pair of socks. No diary, no money, no worries. Always ready, just not today, she thought. Left alone. To the lighthouse, safe at sea. She needs a name, at least.
Úna Elfred did it again. Today, she ran away. Hold that thought.
-
Recent activities fed onto this other world, coded in ones and zeros, it is quite bizarre. As is with using the bluetooth device and having your digital files transferred from the mobile phone to the computer. Without blinking your eyes, you still couldn't see, except the presence of creepiness felt. Got ghost. No. Maybe. To be fed on the computer screen, the private lives of friends-once-strangers, or more likely of strangers-once-friends. Zuckerberg's design of this social platform is plausible and questionable. You know what I am talking about, I hope. A strangers' reunion, rather than a high school reunion. Some of these people, no longer who you thought them once to be. A is married to B, and so did C to D, E has a newborn F, G is all grown up, H has broken up with I, J must have been stalking abouts K's, L no longer on M's list, N poked O: vice versa, P is having a party where Q, R and S were invited except T, U had a bad day and V is ecstatic, W is now at X's while Y was tagged in Z's. The edited versions of A-Z, people she'd known from places they'd been in different phases of her life, now all kept uninvited to her birthday party. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em; such a theory kept Úna dwelling in this crimson whirlpool of cynics. Though not all bad, Úna caught up with Eryc last summer after a decade thanks to that and recently, daily updates of Bob-the-ranger-cat recovering from multiple death threatening surgeries. A documentary-soap-drama. But what do we know about how Bob really feels? And all those pictures of what they had for breakfast, lunch and dinner? Oh come on! Grey, it is! Though not all bad, she'd love being fed updates of certain people on her list, 4 or 5 in particular she'd like to know if they are kicking on, the others being closest friends who live in different cities, thumbs up for random funny feeds and information regarding shows not to be missed. What a hypocrite, I know.
-
The first time Úna Elfred met Bob, it was 11ish one evening. She sat, on the wooden picnic bench table outside a 24hours bistro, as she watched Bob scouted the grass patch on the other side of the road. Sniffing around in the dark, the lone ranger strolled his turf. Looking, looking for something. "Bob!" Ty shouted for him as Bob was ready to roam further down into the alley behind the motel. "Back here!" Of which he hesitatingly did. Bob is a grey tabby, not a regular stray you bump into on the streets but the adventurer, amongst the 7 or 8 cats that Ty+Bllr took in from the streets. Bob gets to wander outside in the day and returns promptly at dusk. His buddy, a blind feline, walked by an elderly; they started talking. The cats did. An unfamiliar conversation went on. We waited and care not to stare. Something about nothing we know of. The second time Úna Elfred met Bob, it could have been 11ish one evening. She was waiting for Ty as she watched Bob came down the stairs; from inside the car she spied. Bob snooping around and down the 5-foot pavement, making his rounds. Looking, looking for something. "Bob!" Ty shouted for him and he came resting on the passenger seat. They talked. Úna and Bob. 'Bout everything and nothing we know of. "How's the bladder doing?" she asked. "Not good," Bob replied. Both took a sip of the stout and quenched their thirst in unison as Úna took the wheel and drove through the pitch-black heath. The headlights were off. The accelerator held down further as she lit up the cigarette. It was quiet. Too quiet. "Life sucks but it is short," Bob advised. "Dude, you've got 9!" She retaliated. It was a slight bump, onto a gravel road and within seconds, they felt the plunge. The tires on no ground felt, they were falling, not floating. On the next beat that their hearts skipped, Úna opened her eyes and all she could see were the converging lane markings illuminated by the headlights. They chuckled. Úna took the next exit and drove Bob back to Ty's. "Hey, what were you looking for?" Úna shouted out of the window from the driver seat as Bob walked away. "I found it tonight actually thanks to you," he answered. "You're not answering the question… Hey!"
Úna Elfred rode on. The regular route 4.5 miles southwest, to southwest. From the glass dome, along the serpentine, out of the park from the barracks, on to the knights' bridge, then the square, pass the river on Chelsea towards the power station, round about queen's town, up the damn slope on Silverthorne, freewheeled down Wandsworth and Walker House in a minute to two. She tried to catch her breath as she brought the racer into the flat. By routine, she managed in the dark; the bike stationed in the corridor, keys tossed on the chest of drawers, gloves and coat removed, still catching her breath and the sweat felt on her back and underarms, before she could blow her nose, lights first please. Never fails to crash her pinky toe against the steel legs of the dining chair, a lesson never learnt, slouched over for the switch and a cup of tea, she thought. "AAAHH! What the?!" she was startled by Ohl, lying on her stripy red couch.
Ohl: This book's… funny, funny brilliant!
Úna: How the hell did you get in here?
Ohl: Your neighbor's well nice. He let me in. Chrys, I think his name is.
Úna: You stood me up yesterday. I waited by the mews, forever. Damn it Ohl.
Ohl: I'm hungry. I love the part about how she gave swimming lessons to the grannies. It's hilarious.
Úna: Me too. I mean I'm hungry and yes, that story's well good. Listen to the audio version. She narrated it. Eggs on toast?
Ohl: Mmm, ok.
Úna: So what do you want?
Ohl: Tuna melt.
Úna: Not supper. What do you want?
Ohl: Tuna melt.
Úna: Right.
Ohl: I've got a message from Waltr. Here.
Úna: Quit teasing. What 'bout it? It's not funny.
/ Úna grabbed the note off Ohl's. She squinted through his handwriting, solemnly.
Úna: He found it.
Ohl: What?
Úna: I've got to go.
Úna picked up the keys and slammed the door behind her. Lowered the window of the Skybird and took a deep breath. She drove, she couldn't think of anything else. She headed further south east where Waltr would be, somewhere along the 3-mile coastline. The wind roared against the raging waves, yet chaotic it was ordered and rhythmic. The chalk cliff seen from a distant edge shimmered in the twilight. The lighthouse erected from the water slightly off the shore emitted the cone of light, in a waltz. There he was.
Úna: Ey?
/ She went up and sat next to Waltr under the fleece.
Waltr: You made it.
/ She saw the bliss in his eyes and felt a lightness in his arms.
Waltr: Look.
/ He woke her up from her nap.
/ A red dot rose above the horizon at the end of the world and the light reflected a line that separated the ocean in two.
Waltr: It is, but temporary. Every moment, everything changes. Every color, every thought, every fall.
Úna: And it holds it all up again.
-
Charlye: Len… Would you come to the party with me?
Lenny: No, I am fictional.
Charlye: But Dan said I can make you whatever I want you to be.
Lenny: Right.
-
MEL, AND THE WALKMAN
Sometime in eighty-three.
Mel: Ron.
Mahtr: Ron Isi.
Darhd: Perfect.
Ron: (…)
-
Side A
The Walkman, he sang about a child who wants to be there yet not exactly, there.
Said if he is invisible, of all the wonders he can bring,
The child, not The Walkman, dear.
of all the goodness he shall whisper through—not from the wind nor a shake of that apple tree.
He shall grant wishes, none too absurd and nothing imaginable that is all too unattainable.
Beware not for him to be thought of a ghost nor a creepy voyeur
watching over your every step and making sure the toast fell butter up.
Yeah but no.
A fallen angel, a hopeless romantic.
If he had wings, he said, they got to be retractable and automatic.
-
Mark, yet undead and walking towards Ron Isi. A yellow-tip Marlboro slacked between his lips. The same sad eyes and his stuck up nod.
Why is he always around the corner?
Mark: I was thinking. Maybe you can make pictures of the family.
Ron: Pictures?
Mark: Family portraits. And drawings right here.
He lifted his shirt and pointed to the side of his ribcage down the side of his torso.
Ron: But, but my drawings are not accurate. Not straight. Not for tattoos. Not good for that.
Mark: I was gonna pay Zull 600 dollars to do it. You know Zull?
Zull? Amelyn's boyfriend who does not know Mark, does he?
The winter sun shone through the gaps of the wooden blinds. Chains of crystals patterned the grim English carpet. The room was dim and sure was busy on the road behind. The patterns faded in and faded out, yellow on brown, as the clouds shifted. Ron was going to be late for a scheduled meeting. She did not care much about it. Too late anyway. Lit and darken, as a child fooled around with the switch of the table lamp, as an adult did unable to go to sleep.
An unburned cigarette waiting to be relit. She felt strange on her head. On the top-left. Was it the scotch or the accidental bump on Cuz's head while they were in the car. It hurt and it did not. What is another word other than strange but strange. Unbalanced head, it was. The sound of the flame lit as the roller turned and held down by the thumb of the writing hand. Pptz sshrr, vvyhhss. Inhaled. Ashes fell like an undramatic London snow. The heat felt between the stained fingers and the lips as the tobacco burnt on the end of the filter. The smoke in the air, into the eyes, onto the light rays slipped through the gaps. The fumes remained as traces on the walls. The ashtray filled with pencil shavings, orange peels? yes, ex-filter tips plastic holders, smoked cigarettes and filthy ashes. The screensaver on the computer came on. Three lighters sat there, with too many other things on this cheesy dining table, multi-tasked as a work desk. Dirty dishes, drawing pens, color pencils, stained coasters, books, maps, trash, materials useful and useless, and more things unlisted. The room dimmed again and chills were felt on her naked legs. The pain was lightweight, not niggling. Still okay.
Another cigarette rolled on her lips.
I am embarrassed of her procrastination.
A cup of tea, not exactly the English way. An hour late alright, postponed anyway.
This was supposed to be about Mel and The Walkman.
Go away Mark. Stop haunting me already.
Ron found a spot up the slope on the fence and lock her bike up on the elevated ledge. Considered Mark's request—probably not. They left the room and went downstairs. The first bar passed was not ready to serve, they went to the shop next door. Orozco's pool table sat above the conventional. They sat around it but were too many suddenly. 4PM—she wrote on the back of her hand. I'M STILL ALIVE—printed on her oversized green jumper. Out of it and out of the stripy boy shorts, she'd a gold Casio digital on, not yet ready to go. Not yet ready for Mel. Already too many buses had stopped for boarding and departing. Move on.
Time flies so quickly, soon I will be—dead, anyway.
The room dimmed again. The stench remained on everything in her possession. It is disgusting. Someone whispered. There's a man lurking on the corner of her toilet tile. The spiders left. No longer there. Spring is soon to arrive and an hour back to the future. Stubbed out the filthy cigarette and the paper creased against the glass ashtray. Two sips of tea and 4 miles to ride. Is Ron's ready for Mel?
Mykr made it all so simple, like it was so easy, so easy to tell a story. He had it in him. His words, his voice, his posture. It's his character and it's clearly written all over his drawings. But where is Mel and The Walkman?
It'd been two weeks. Time goes by as time went by.
I don't know where to start, really. The guest room? The gallery? The bookshop? The walkman? The buddy burgers? The ER? The fish 'n' chips? Or the red jeep?
"Let me help you with this," a strange man said.
It was Mel's gallery, Ron remembered. A good day out, the street could be seen through the glass panels that were stretched from the ground to the ceiling and both ends of the gallery walls. On Sixth Avenue, it sat on the corner of the cross-junction. It was rather quiet out, almost a ghost town on contrary to the perfect weather. The gallery was busy, not too many people but too many canvases leaned against the walls of hung paintings. Ron was in an awkward and uncomfortable position, juggling the unpacked oversized drawings she'd brought for Mel who was not there then, and lost she was, a stranger gave her a hand.
Point is, Mel is family and Ron supposed she could pull all the strings she could ever find now that she did not know what to do with her life. Besides Mel'd always been supportive and encouraging. In fact while Ron was growing up, both of them had and needed each other. Mel is an Aunt and almost a friend.
Oh, because Bhraf has a gawdmahtr, Ron thought she'd like to have one too.
Bhraf has Aunt Ann, Ron has Aunt Mel. It was perfect and (just) fair, in sort of such a sense.
I guess.
Ron had a medical history of constant nosebleed (Epistaxis). Heatiness, Mahtr insisted; although the doctor said something about some tissue too thin, something about the nasal bones. Also, as on eMedicineHealth.com, it was recorded to occur more in Winter months and in dry, cold climates—strange for Ron, growing up on a humid tropical island. So often, then, it became natural, it was—normal. She would sit on the glazed ceramic tiled steps, the width of 2 regular doors, leading between the lounge and the dining room of Nana's, Ron would lower her chin down, when she was told otherwise, and watch her blood dripping on the double-ply paper napkin. Open out, she unraveled the beauty of those patterned stains, bright red blots, not exactly Pollock's, more of an organic geometry. Epistaxis is common in children aged 2 to 10 years and apparently for reasons unknown, they commonly occur in the morning hours. Like I said, it was a regular routine for Ron till that one fine night (not considered morning since it was midnightish) it got dramatic and frightening (as quoted from the first line of the description on eMedicineHealth.com). Her nose, with a mind of its own, could not stop leaking red. The smell of the blood and the taste of it… just like the taste and the smell of—blood. How can I describe it. Mental, the English would say. That night, the entire family was a bundle of nerves.
Was Bhraf worried as Mahtr and all of them were?
Okay, that's not exactly the point.
Anyway, too much blood lost = no good; Ron had to be taken to the hospital. They were on their way to Alexandra Hospital, which was 3 miles away. Ron laid on Mel's lap thinking she was going die, only because she was affected by everyone's anxiety in Pop's S-class (W116). Darhd was driving, Mahtr on the front next to him, and there was Mel and gawddarhd-to-be Ed.
Mel: You are going to be okay.
Ron: (…)
She remembered being comforted, as sheets of tissue paper were stuffed up her nostrils. A boxer in a ring took a hit on his nose and fell in slow-motion, face smacked down against the hard hollow ground. The bell rang and the spectators raised as they cheered for the good man won. Arrived at the ER and the bleeding stopped while waiting, too long. Doctor said it was—normal. No worries. No prescription. Ron could not remember when was the last time she had a nosebleed.
It was amusing, rather.
Mel: I am hungry.
Ron: Already?
From behind the tall blue counter, they sat, Ron popped out of the second-hand bookshop which was on the top level,with 2 golden coins; she ran down the single escalators of this gloomy aged Plaza, out of it then down again to BurgerKing in the basement.
Ron: 1 buddy burger, to go please.
In ninety-one, Mel was pregnant for the first time and Ron would spend her after-school hours accompanying her as a runner. Hourly food cravings and constant headaches, Ron was right beside her aunt: snack hunting, sharing it and finishing them; hand her over the ointment, painkillers and provide massage sessions; and everything else to make her feel better. Acting cashier, stamping due-dates on the book-slips, handling change and packing them in the bags. It was enjoyable as a child playing a working adult. Apart from that, Ron loved the attention she received from the owner of the shop next door who was also a charming television star. As Mel expanded her chain of second-hand bookshops over the years, Ron helped out with the artistic direction for her growing business. Ron'd always admired Mel's and Ed's partnership in business and in love. They had humble beginnings, as a florist she was and him, a lab technician, before their entrepreneurship flourished with ups and downs. On Teachers' Day during her pre-school, Ron would be praised by her teachers as she presented them with flowers Mel had selectively picked for her giveaways. And Ed, in his bright red Jeep Islander, would bring them the ever-so-tasty fish 'n' chips from the canteen of the technical institute he worked at, of those afternoons Ron would hang out with Mel and Ed's newborn, Nyck. In sort of a guest room, on the ground floor of Nana's bungalow, that was where Ron spent most of her sleep-overs. Not the biggest nor the smallest room ever been, a bunk bed set perpendicular to a single bed of wooden made frames under the likely grilled window with horizontal white vinyl blinds, a drawer cabinet doubled as a dressing table with a temporary sheet of mirror reclined against the wall, a 3-door beech finished wardrobe arranged behind the door next to the bunk bed, covered on speckled grey floor paper and bakelite light switches installed. A piece of batik hung from the ceiling with an attached coil spring—it was a baby cradle suspended in the middle of the room. The blinds drawn down, the room was dark and chilly with the cold air conditioner lowered in temperature. Ron gently shook the cradle up and down to coax Nyck to sleep as they got ready for a collective afternoon nap. The Walkman sang a lullaby, R for Ron and L for Mel. The PLAY button reset as the spools stopped turning...
Ron climbed over the drain on Darhd's D.I.Y. bridge, passed Black's grave, through the rusty gate in the backyard and ran back into that room from an unexpected safari. Captivated by its bizarre setting, she'd wanted to photographed it—the dusty land and the rainbow that fell behind the migrating parade. She rummaged through the boxes on the upper bunk bed but could not find her camera anywhere.
Ron: Did you see it?
Mel: (…)
Side B
Fast forward to the track after. Likely 5 to 6 by either ways, altogether forgotten.
The words printed on the pages of this book were once learned, now forgotten.
The Walkman rowed the boat, as the little one sat,
forehead pressed on the passenger seat window.
"What's on your mind?" he inquired.
"Nothing," Ron replied.
Incredible.
DIVING WITH JEROME
Hi, how are you, hello
Úna Elfred'd played it over in her head, once too many times. Fingers crossed, head straightened. A newly-found, muse, call it whatever it describes, a distraction, an obsession. The idea of an unattainable. A subject of desire. To save a glimpse from right across the street, to watch (say admire) as she took a drag of her fag, of—her sip an afternoon tea, in love, them sat behind the glass that divided both worlds. They'd realized one's presence, stole a glance or two. And went on with their own lives, uncrossed, unquestioned. Who would have expected otherwise. Daniel Johnston, Anthony Gonzalez, JD Samson—geniuses. The list could go on. Played it over, perhaps make a brand new best friend, that is if the chosen has the same sentiments; as they ride down the mews on bikes over the bumpy stoned passage:
1. Nice ride, how'd you do?
2. Bumpy huh?
3. Hi, how are you, hello.
Or unlikely, catching up as she made her way out into the open road home or elsewhere. Missed.
1. Hi, how are you, hello.
2. I think I am in love with you.
Doubt it. Too late anyway. Hasn't seen her lately.
There was a day, they caught a gaze. Seconds that could have just been a second. Like on silver screen, the lights dimmed, they were not there, they were not there. Then, it was there, and passed the stairs, then it was there, up those stairs. So near, yet so far, so they said. She'd him, embraced, kisses and a sweet oh sweet shared luncheon. Oh so sweet. M Quatre-Vingts-Trois = shoegazing geniuses! Orgasmic! Nothing to lose, nothing to cry for, nothing to fuss about, only tears of laughter upon no shameless crime. Allez! There's always a first time for everything. They deserve the truth! They'd been loved. Love at first sight on a one-way street. Who cares. There's always a first time for anything. To run her fingers through those thick brown locks, to feel the rushing heartbeats behind a naked ear. To wake, under the sheets, of soft rhythmic breaths and whispers of sunshine through one's flaming lips. Pancakes, coffee and white-painted oak floors. Could be nice. These words, this cigarette, this glass of scotch, Coloring The Void, could be nicer. Do not forget happiness is only real when shared. Do not be dead before.
Bent over the pool table, tight trousers wrapped around lifted buttocks. The cue grasped in her right hand angled between the knuckles of her left as she positioned for 8-ball to be struck, proper. Try again. Turned against the world, she had her hands in her shirt. She's ready. Hey ho' let's go. It's okay to be stupid. There's always a first time for everything. She would know what to do even when the time's not quite right. She's in love with you. No fear of the deep although it could drown you. Nor the fall. There's love. There's lost. She's gone. She's not coming back. There's always a first time for everything. So where do we start?
There were 2 Jeromes. One high school sweetheart, showered her with chocolate candies and love letters, alphabets jumbled. Slightly stout, he was, with slit eyes, a rather sharp nose and his hair centre-parted, too neat. A year or two a senior. Couldn't remember what happened but his love was stacked in a tin amongst tins stashed away somewhere in the closet, unopened, most likely moldy. He was nice. He was kind. And Jerome, Diving With Jerome, not too shortly after. An artist and a dutch. Shaved head, grey, not too grey, 6'6". Very—nice. Very—alluring. Hij draait haar op, elke keer. Elke keer! Sur la plage ou non sur la plage.
How'd he ended up there? Naked, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the motel room. Walls painted in a bad blue, unmatched furniture arranged in corners, a cheesy picture of a scenic landscape hung above the bed; two floors up a dodgy frequent indian eatery, next to was a busy road, bright red stools sat around bright yellow tables. An undercover rookie sat across, for days, Jerome insisted. More likely a retired hooligan, she thought. By the undrawn window, and an office building 50 feet opposite, he stood, butt naked, an erected cock. Someone's watching. Ceiling fan or cold air-conditioned, downtown, in and out of the unbearable tropical heat. They had each other and there were the orgasms. Till dusk. Till dawn. There's always a first time for everything. Different, that was all he said. Different good, different bad. Different? His eyes mesmerizing. His tongue luscious. His touch tempting. Úna Elfred could not forget. The first kiss, the walk on sand, the boat ride and the coach back.
How'd they ended up there? Gordon. There he was. On his way up the slanted coconut tree on a barely lit sidewalk. The sea was calm. Not too drunk. They strolled back to their huts. A kiss goodnight. That was it. Gordon saw them falling for each other. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. It was not a good night's sleep within the straw walls as she recalled. Tyomn Ysland creeps after night falls. Should have been the day after or before. It was dive day. It could have been nice. Rough waters and too slim a craft for canoeing did not seem like a better option. Úna'd a 2-star kayaking certificate but definitely more up for a basic dive with the boys. Jerome was convinced to join them. There's always a first time for everything. Brief instructions were given, they were 4 or 5 newbies. Ready. Úna was not. Though shallow, 7 meters down, she'd a ear squeeze. Both ears. Pain x2. Goggles fogged, salt water up her nose. It was not a spectacle, not the least of the worst postcard. Mostly murky, and pain in the ears. In fact nicer was by the shore of Monkyh Beyh. Then again, at least a sea turtle'd swum by, exasperated as they had their bare hands stroked against a limp or two of this poor thing. There was Jerome in her hands. Gordon could not understand. Sissies.
They met, or rather Úna found them, on Monkyh Beyh, on not so fine a day, at least yes and no for her. Yes, terrific! indeed, as she found fellow holiday-makers and yes, it was a nice lovely sunny day everyday, it was not the monsoon period, some fine day. No, because she'd almost and could have killed herself in the jungle on her way. No, because she'd not recovered from the trauma. The fine white sand beneath her feet, the clear water revealing the schools of anchovies were therapeutic yet not enough to take her mind off the fact that she could have had slipped off that cliff, hit a rock and—die. It's funny. Life is. You try to kill yourself, sometimes, on your wrist along and not across, like they did on T.V.. The concept of death, then, was brilliant, in the stupidest context. You feel alone. It gets funny. When you end up in the middle of the woods, alone and perhaps in not so death threatening a situation, you instinctively find means not to succumb to death. Úna'd came across couple of strangers in the beginning of the trek. They were going in the opposite direction. She did not think it would be difficult to follow a trail from one village to the other, not until she lost her sight of a trail. She went round, up, there and there. Panic. No one was seen nor heard. Just crickets and toads and overgrown roots and wild thorns here and there. She got anxious, her heart raced. Breathe. Breathe. Deep breaths. The multiple scratches on her arms and legs did not bother her too much. Her ankles hurt. It did not matter. Move, she reminded herself. She could not be lost as she had lied of her whereabouts. No one really knew where she went. She could not die. Not now. Not yet. Blood on her arms and sweat dripping off her forehead into her eyes. The backpack weighing her down in the heat. Where's? someone, anyone? She fell. She got up. Minutes felt like hours. The refreshing air of the jungle started to be suffocating, not knowing her way out. All the shades of green surrounded her in a camouflage of labyrinth. No trail. Nowhere. Massive trees in all directions and traces only of hers on mud. No luck. No flashbacks. At least she knew she was not going to die. Not today. It was just going to be tricky and more than slightly painful to get to the other side of the island. The sound of the waves against the rocks led her to the edge of the cliff. Too far down. She went along the edge instead. And there wasn't any to follow. It was left, into the water 30 feet off or right, back to the jungle. Left, it was. It was a jump too near the rocks. Still, a relief. Great, everything got wet. Where she thought was her destination, was in fact Monkyh Beyh, not just yet where she was planning to go. No damn way was she going back to where she was stuck for the last many hours. There's always a first time for everything. Úna Elfred hitched a ride in the boys' boat. That was how they met.
A decade too far. Their faces remained a decade young. Gordon and his goatee on the slanted tree. Jerome, naked in the motel downtown. The rain hadn't stop falling.
Hi, how are you, hello
Bhraf And The Four Heavenly Kings
N
W • E
S
If once was not enough,
"NO!"
Ron could not recall where the anger was coming from except that it was the last word spoken to Bhraf. Yelled at, as a matter of fact; —an involuntary enrage. That was likely the second monologue after the only Hello all summer, that she had said, of a single word to him.
Ron spoke to Mahtr on an almost twice-a-week basis. Conversations over the horn lasted from approximately 4 minutes to rare occasions of 15 minutes—tops. Skype calls happened on unusual days; the last being 2 weeks back, dialed from Nana's. Over the horn, conversations were not exactly the type you thought so. Frequently-asked-questions with given answers of yes and no included:
"Did you eat?" / "Did you work?" / "Did you go out?"
"!?"
She ate, drank and smoked. So did I. Ron had not found any ways to entice Mahtr into an interesting conversation; only always being drifted back to square one, led by an overly concerned mother worried only of Ron's physical, and not mental, health. Never treated like a friend but as an overly protected well over-grown child. Her mother's love and care was limitless, yet carelessly limited. Darhd was worse, over the line or in person. It was a family of a few words when it came to the four of them. They could have been the Four Heavenly Kings* watching over the cardinal directions of the world, back turned and too far away from each other.
Ron and Bhraf had a strangers' relationship. At times, so near yet so far, he was the brother she never quite had. Never quite there, when the walls came rumbling down and things being thrown around. As a child, Ron took cover from the regular verbal wrestles between Darhd and Mahtr not from the protection of a brother but the corners of rough plastered walls.
He always gets away from all these unpleasant moments.
They all have their big brother; mine? A very wrong word, then again: non-existent.
"Don't you worry. It gets better when y'all get older."
Shane'd assured her, by pure experience apparently and time was supposed to make everything alright anyway.
Well, rather unlikely? It hadn't been any good, over the last decade.
Having said that, how could Ron have found a solution when she did not have a clue what was the cause of the problem.
Ron was 5:
There was once and the only time, back on Coco Hill, Ron had a brother.
"But I am here,"
He vowed, to be the guardian angel of her night, to make sure Freddy did not leave Elm Street.
Ron was 8:
One other time,
"Teach me,"
And that was nice, as Ron felt important. Like a ringmaster training a bear on an unicycle, Ron passed on her whistling techniques to her big brother.
Sure felt good to know something he didn't.
Ron was 9:
Mostly, as a child, both of them had nothing good to say to each other.
"You're stupid!"
Nana overheard Ron insulting Bhraf in her sleep.
Ron was 11, maybe 7:
"Stop singing,"
Ron sulked as Bhraf had all the attention on the road trip.
Ron was 13:
"Quit following me,"
Bhraf commanded and turned his back as they got out of the truck on Ron's first day at school.
Ron was 27:
"So long, you do not become her,"
Bhraf reminded his little one as Ron played clown and amused her with a wind-up toy.
It was that watch, wasn't it? It was a curse.
I should not have opened his birthday gift. It did not belong to me.
I should have listened.
They warned her. Ron did not bother. She could have and she should have.
I should have done many things.
I should have not been here.
I should, this. I should, that.
Stop telling me what I should do.
Suddenly:
s, h, o, u, l and d kind of looked weird
when placed next to the other.
"My brother…"
This.
"My brother…"
That.
"My brother…"
Blah, blah, blah.
"My brother…"
It goes on.
Ron listened in awe to all these stories of "my brother…" from people around her over too long a period of time. Ron would imagine being the author and lead character of these stories: of the adventures, incidents and conversations with a—brother. Nonetheless never felt quite right about an imaginary brother since that would not have nominated her onto Bhraf's Love-My-Little-Sister list. Only misunderstandings, more than mishaps. Whereas, these guys, they had something.
Le Brothers
Gwndlr had decided to get away from Paris. He had a broken heart. Ian was in London, he came by. They sat on the desk next to each other; an elbow away, on wooden chairs, they were two disciplined juniors in a classroom. They sat the same way down, different hair, different drawings, similar body language and brothers with mint-colored eyes. Ian could not mend Gwndlr's broken heart, but he was there to share a lunchbox and a bed. They baked a King's pie, they had each other.
That could have been us.
Big Leo, Little Leo
They almost had the same nose and cheek bones. It must be the hair, too. On a rented racer and a squeaky Triumph, they went on a Deptford hunt. Laughters over a shared cigarette; a cider and a lager, they danced within the red velvet curtains through the chilly winter night.
That could have been us.
The Hickey Boys
Partners-in-crime; they shoplifted and they pranked. To protect and be protected, made-up jokes and made-up laughters, that's alright. Questions answers and stories exchanged in a one-bed motel down town, they supported each other despite constant dissimilarities. They overcame their ego and said I love you after three decades. It was funny, they managed.
That could have been us.
Alvin and an undead—Mark
Don't wake the dead. At least, they spoke.
That could have been us.
Yet, they weren't them.
Ron and Bhraf
They were barely three years apart by age and only ten thousand eight hundred forty-sevenish kilometers away from each other. They were magnets of the same pole. Shared Darhd's eyes and lived very different lives. Bhraf, an aerospace engineer and a family guy. Ron, a self-proclaimed artist and not a homey sort of person. Bhraf seemed to know what he wanted, what he liked and what to do. Ron, on the contrary—not. His sticker collection, ended up her possession. His postal stamps obsession, were missing Ron's favorite design. His fondness for Lego bricks passed on to Ron's Pink Legoland. Whatever he had, she had to have them. The Four Heavenly Kings, if not the four guardian angels of the Buddhist faith, were the four Canto pop artistes of the early nineties. Bhraf had taken a pick of one from the four; Ron then, had too, idolize the other as to oppose his preferences yet at the same time be lured into all of Bhraf's hobbies and interests.
How else could we have been closer?
Ahndy was definitely more talented than Ehronn, by vocals and by looks.
I have better taste in music and films.
Ron assumed. Till recent years did she realize she had lost her confidence over the years. Had the Fairy Blackstick too taken it away. Bhraf, unlike either of The Four Heavenly Kings, had yet been crowned prince. Neither a pop star, neither a guardian angel. Bhraf and Bhrafer knew not Ron nor vice verse.
Ron took the road, in her own directions.
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