In the woods behind my old house, the memory of the boy I once was plays with the ghosts at dawn. Like The Pied Piper, I chase after him longing for the mysteries of the fall. There are twigs in my beard, and I’m mildly drunk. The grain on my camera phone isn’t flattering in the slightest, and as I try to capture the most mesmerising images possible, the magic islacking. As an architect of the strange, I’m usually pretty good at sniffing out intriguing shots, but this time around, nothing works. It’s been raining all day, and although the rain fills my soul like holy water, I’m drowned all the same. My mind is awash with snatches of scenes I can’t place, but I know they must surely belong to me. Resting against the trunk of a tree, I remember the smell of her innocent neck and the way the colours in her hair danced before my eyes before spilling over her nubile breasts. The colours were yellow and orange. Her eyes were dark, but also blue. She was of the sun, but also the moon. On a beach, she was out of reach, and yet, at that moment, in that hour, she was in my arms as the sparrows and magpies circled overhead. The last thing I can recall, apart from the waves washing over her bare feet, were the hairs on her arms standing on end as I wrapped my fingers around her skinny wrists. The forest, although known to me like the back of my hand, is an alien landscape. It shimmers like the ocean that laps the rocky shores of my mind. The roots of the tree curl like pubic hairs, and although time ceases to be, the ticking seconds that pass as I gaze upwards are like the pecking tok tok toks of the beak of a woodpecker in the branches above as the dangerous clouds spread themselves to reveal the celestial gravestones of dead galaxies that are now mere grains of dust in my watery eyes. Sinking my fingers into the wet earth, the soil welcomes me the same as her body.Taking myself in hand, the pleasures are all real, and yet as the leaves whisper her name, I have no way of telling how much of this is real, and how much purely exists in the foamy waters that have flooded my brain.
S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of three collections of prose: A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1, 2, & 3 (available on Amazon.) Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.