The Bridge

 

He stares down from the bridge and he imagines turning against all he’s been told, been taught, and jumping into the algal brown of the river. He imagines the off-white spray of the sudden displacement, then the cool and quiet. His soul will carry him deeper, darker, cooler; he will feel the water around his feet thickening with silt, then around his arms, and his body, until the thickening solidifies beneath him.

He will lie down in the mud and smooth stones, among the bikes and tyres and bones. He will find comfort with the creatures of the deep darkness, their sinuous forms breaking the stillness with ripples of familiarity.

From above filters down only the memory of colour, the vague recollection of sound; a gentle snow falls around him, confirming his place in the deep.

In the stillness, he will not notice the gentle biting and gnawing; in the dark, he will only feel himself expanding, fading, as his flesh is freed from the confines of his frame and taken far beyond his resting place.

And soon he will be only the water and the dirt, and tyres and bones; he will be the swell rising and the snow falling; the off-white spray and the cool brown.

He stares down from the bridge and he imagines.

Creek

 

So here we find ourselves:

In this nursery, this sanctuary,

Pissing flowers and tyres and shards of glass.

Here, our throne; strewn with bones and ash

Here, our crown of knives and rust

Here, our sceptre, hewn of spite and dirt.

Debris and de bruit.

So here we find ourselves:

Born of water, but chained to the land;

A memory of gills and fins,

Of the cold and quiet deep.

So here we find ourselves:

Consummate yet consumed;

Tossed in this tireless flow of air and dust,

Imagining our agency in this propulsion.

So here we find ourselves: wanting.

The Beast

It was nearly a week since the beast had escaped and now, at last, he felt it stirring again: the twist of its sinuous form around his stomach; the low, menacing growl reverberating through his arms and out to his fingertips; the wordless, violent thoughts coursing up his spine and flooding his mind.

He froze, terrified, remembering the violence if its escape: the thrashing, the gnashing, the scratching as it had pulled itself up his chest and into the open air; the mad howling and snarling as it remembered freedom; the rattling, gasping breaths as it stretched its lungs for the first in a long time.

And he remembered the fight: the clawing (his, this time) to return it to its prison; the chains and locks doubled, tripled, to prevent future escape. He remembered the cold sting of the night air on his underclothed skin (how did I get here?); the burning of noise, poison and lies, anything to cover that maddening growl, the only sound he heard in the silence… and always the fear that this might be the time that he’d lose.

Perhaps there was no more fight in him: perhaps he should simply lie down and let the beast do its final damage.

So, this time, he did not run to the noise and the fight, but walked gently into the silence. He lay down beside the gently trickling stream and waited for the beast to take him.

But in the silence, he heard it was not a growl, but a whimper; the vibrations a quiet, mournful moan. Here, the beast did not seem big, but the cage seemed small.

Oh god, he thought; what have I done?

And now the beast froze: it lifted its head to sniff the dirt and water and, recognising kin, the silence rushed in to meet it…

Him.

He felt the silence course around him, felt it unlock the chains and open the door of his cage. He stepped out, cautiously; felt his feet sink into the water and earth; smelled the trees and dirt; breathed as though for the first in a long time.

And, as he sobbed, the beast held him, and he held the beast and, together, they were whole.