The Lion Sleeps Tonight

He sat on his haunches in the light drizzle, hugging his rifle as the sounds of the jungle surrounded him. As black of the night pressed in on him. The sound of his companion in the bushes and the flickering light of the lantern his only comfort. The shadows danced with the faint flame in the middle of its glass cage, sometimes sharpening, sometimes receding, making the surrounding jungle a little larger or just that much smaller as it did so. He crouched a little lower and hugged his rifle a little tighter, keeping it an angle so that the water falling through the tree above him didn't find its way into the barrel.
Blinking to get the water out of his eyes, he strained his ears hoping to pick up any sound. Taking the night watch had been a mistake, he was too young for this, but somebody had to do it. He looked at his companion picking his way back through the puddles and felt a little better. Much older than him, his companion was an experienced hunter, and bore the scars to prove it. He'd had a few close calls before, almost lost an arm in one of them and there he was, still standing, limping but still standing. If only he would talk a little more. It seemed like he was constantly hunting. Rarely making a sound. He moved like a cat in spite of his limp, surefooted, lithe, the rifle seeming like an extension of his arm.
The old man settled down with his back against the tree. They sat silently in the small, flickering circle of light, watching for any movement in the darkness beyond it. The sound of the crickets lulled the young man towards sleep. A sharp jab in the ribs woke him and awake he stayed, keeping vigil, trying to look in all directions at the same time. The old man indicated that his eyes were useless, his ears, on the other hand were immensely useful. The youth listened, not just heard. The jungle seemed to take on a life that hadn't been there before. The sounds of the crickets seemed to jump out of the night, the rhythm seeming like a symphony. The wind whistling through the swaying trees. The drops of rain falling into the puddles surrounding him. The sounds of the jungle as it slumbered.
The old man listened for something that was still awake. His ears hunted for something like himself, for something that hunted in the night.
The lion stood absolutely still, watching the two men sitting in the shelter of the large tree. The water slid down his coat, matting his fur, but he was unaware of it. His eyes, as sharp as they were when he was a cub, were riveted to the two men. His body, still as a pond in winter, tensed like a spring waiting to be uncoiled. His claws digging miniature ravines in the wet mud beneath his paws as he retracted and extended them, waiting patiently for the moment to strike.
The hunters waited for their prey.
The old man stood, trying to get the circulation in his legs going again. The signs of age showing in his movement. Arthritis sent shots of pain through his joints. His body tensed as he heard the bushes to his left rustle. Standing very still he indicated to his companion to get up. The young man sat frozen with fear. His limbs refused to move. He stared at the bushes surrounding him, each one baring its malice. The shadows held nightmares waiting to spring. Each sound the jungle made heralded the coming of the apocalypse. Each drop of rain that touched him seemed like a nail in his coffin. Fear ruled his senses. Terror gripped his limbs. Each breath was an effort. His rifle shook as he shivered in the cold, mirthless night.
The old man growled to himself and cursed silently. The boy was all but useless, probably worse. He scanned the woods for anything out of the ordinary, any sign, any warning. He hoped he'd see it in time.
The lion growled under his breath. The water dripping from his mane into his eyes made him blink, but he dared not try to shake it off. He'd had already announced his presence. They were alert now. The smell of fear from the young one made his whiskers twitch, made him impatient. Years of hunting instinct, honed and sharpened in the jungle, could not battle impatience and hunger. It had been two days since somebody from the village had come out. It frustrated him that he had to hunt humans. He was too old, too slow to hunt in the jungle. Iron like muscles contracted under his skin, making crevices in which the water flowing over his body found a place to stay. He crouched, balancing his weight across his legs, preparing to charge.The damp soil gave way beneath his paws. Hunger boiled in his mind, frustration burned in his soul.
The old man blinked to get the water out of his eyes, cursing that he could not see as well as he used to. Years of experience and instinct, sharpened in the jungle, told him this was the best time to strike down your prey. He could almost feel the lion's eyes on him. The slit like pupils watching every little movement he made. And he didn't know where the damn thing was! It was out there though, he was sure of that. He listened, hoping he'd hear a warning, hoping he'd hear it in time.
A blood curdling roar filled the jungle around him, the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. He pushed down his fear and paid attention to the sound, trying to identify the direction it came from. Terror struck the young man like lightning. He gibbered and scrambled to his feet. Flailing about, he aimed his rifle in the direction of every new sound he heard. Stumbling backward away from the tree, he tripped over a root and dropped his rifle in the mud.
The lion charged out of the bushes seeing that one of the men was down, his paws splashing through the puddles of water. If he could just move fast enough he'd be able to take the young one before the old man even managed to move.
The old man heard the splashes and rushed towards his fallen comrade, keeping his eye and the sight of his gun on the bushes. He burst out of the cover of the bushes, a yellow and black blur. His breath misted ahead of him, powerful lungs sucking in air like a bellows. His curved teeth gleamed in the lamplight. His eyes shone with a fever for meat, for food. He lunged at his fallen prey.
The old man threw himself forward, firing blindly, hoping that he'd hit his target. He landed on the ground on his side, his arm beneath him.
The lion felt something knock the wind out of him. He landed, hard, almost as soon as he had started to pounce. His side ached, blood seeping out of it into the puddle he'd landed in, giving the water a reddish tinge like the sunset on a clear day. He tasted bile, the acrid sensation spreading in his mouth. The adrenaline pumping into his brain numbed the pain, taking the edge off. He got to his feet and charged towards his fallen opponent with a roar.
The old man tried to get his arm out from under him so that he could position his rifle. He saw the yellow blur rush toward, a hair slower than it had been just a few seconds earlier. He'd managed to hit it. The lion landed on him with the force of pile driver, crushing his arm. He could feel the hot breath of the lion close to his neck. He felt the blood ooze out of the beast's side onto his thigh. With all the strength he could muster he drove his knee into the lion's side. The resulting roar almost deafened him. It also gave him enough slack to be able to move his rifle. He tried to get his finger around the trigger, his hands slipping over the wet wood.
The lion bared his teeth close to the old man's face, saliva dripping from his curved teeth. The weight of the lion seemed to pause all other sensations, he felt something warm flow down his shoulder. His finger found the trigger.
It seemed like an age before the young man could move from his place against the tree. He trembled as he pushed himself onto his feet and gathered his rifle in the flickering lamplight. On tottering steps he walked to the old man and picked him up. Dragging him toward the village through dark jungle. He walked through the open gates of the village. Past the waiting sentries, one of whom ran through the peaceful village, banging on doors, waking its sleeping inhabitants.
They gathered in the village square. People walking slowly behind the the hunters. The young man got to the square and dropped the corpse.
"The lion sleeps tonight", he said to the people behind him.
He knelt next to the old man and whispered, "The lions sleep tonight."

Renaissance Eyes

Disclaimer: For those of you who know me and/or have read anything on this blog before - I have not gone stark raving mad (or anything else). There has been no momentous or untoward event in my life. All of the deep questions are still left unanswered (at least by me).
I wrote this on the request of/as a response to a challenge from a friend of mine (honestly, I just think she wanted me to write something that didn't make her want to commit suicide). GP, I hope this meets with your approval.

--

He ran into the cafe and walked to the counter shaking the water out of his jacket. The rain had started out of the blue, literally. A clear sky and yet, there it was, pouring cats and dogs. He murmured thanks to the powers that be that the cafe was close by. A small place, plush couches, big display window, the rain flowing down it in rivulets, a view one could stare at, or through, for hours.
The young pimple faced boy behind the counter put down his book and smiled. "Good evening, sir. What can I get for you?"
"One double shot espresso to go, please", he said watching the rain through the window.
"Sir, that's black coffee," said the boy.
"I know", he replied with a smile.
A few minutes and something that sounded like the strangling of a goat later, a styrofoam cup with a dark, steaming liquid was placed in front of him. He paid for his coffee and walked to the window. The gentle tapping of the rain against the pane lulling him into a state of peace, the steaming liquid warming his frozen bones. He touched the window with his fingertips, he could almost feel the drops falling against it. He stared at the reflection of the cafe in the pane and saw her. Sitting on the red leather couch, a book in her lap, she looked exactly like she had the last time he'd seen her. Almost a year since he'd accepted her resignation, since he'd looked into those eyes. Eyes that seemed like they'd come out of a painting by Da Vinci or Michaelangelo, from the heyday of civilization. He stared at her reflection, hoping she wouldn't see him ... hoping she would see him. Did she see him? Maybe if he walked out quickly enough, she wouldn't see him at all.
Taking a deep breath, he balled up all of his courage and turned around. All of her attention taken up by the book she didn't seem to notice a lock of her hair dropping down in front of her left eye at all. Each step toward her seemed to get harder, each requiring more of the courage he'd balled up. He closed his eyes and walked in a straight line toward the couch.
She felt somebody bump into the couch, dropping her book she turned and caught her breath as she looked up into his face. She hadn't seen him in almost a year, since she quit ... he hadn't tried to stop her then. His mouth was moving but she couldn't hear what he was saying. He cleared his throat. "Hi," he said with a smile.
"Hi! How've you been?" she said. A wide smile on her face that touched her renaissance eyes.
"I've been good. What about you?"
"Good, good. Sit down, please," she said, gesturing to the empty seat on the couch.
He bent to pick up the book she'd dropped, 'The Bridges of Madison County'. "Reading it again, huh. I read it after you told me about it. Pretty good."
"It's my favourite," she said with a sheepish smile.
"I know", he said. Realising the implications of what he had said, he blushed and cleared his throat again. "I like his job, photographer for National Geographic, imagine all of the things you could see", he said with a mischievous smile. Her laugh, with its musical lilt, resounded in his ears. Memories of how he used to try to make her laugh flooded back, with all of the wishes he made then, echoes of conversations that never happened, visions of dreams that he'd had ... if only. Now he had the chance. The chance he'd wished for, he'd hoped for, he'd dreamed of. He gazed at her, watching the dimples of her cheeks dance as she laughed.
She couldn't stop laughing. Why couldn't she stop laughing? He was looking at her with that odd smile on his face. One side of his mouth turned up, the same one he'd worn a year ago, and she couldn't stop laughing.
Afternoon gave way to twilight as they talked, of times past, of times to come, of hopes and dreams, both lost and fulfilled. They laughed and basked in the glory of each others attention. Attention each had reserved only for the other. They didn't notice the passage of time or that the rain had dwindled to light drizzle, the small drops of water blazing like sparks in the evening light.
She stopped mid sentence. He turned to look at what had caught her attention. They sat in silence looking at the perfect sunset through lace curtains of the drizzle. He turned back to look at her and saw tears streaming down her face, their path shifting around her small smile. She noticed him looking and quickly wiped away the tears. Grabbing his hand, sending an electric shock through him as she did so, she dragged him out the door.
She bent her neck to face the azure yonder above, one horizon just beginning to darken and the other crimson with the setting sun. Closing her eyes to feel the drops touching her face, she let go of his hand, still oblivious of what she had done to him, and raised her arms as though to hug the sky, the clouds and the rain. She wished to could take all of it with her, she wished for once she could feel the whole of it, the immensity of it.
Energetic steps, bordering on dancing, propelled her frame through the rain, the lyrics and rhythm of 'Raindrops are falling on my head' spurring her through it. He couldn't help smiling as he followed her lapsing from singing softly to humming the bars of the rhyme and back again. Jumping in a puddle, she beckoned him to do the same. With a grin and without a care for his leather shoes, he jumped into the puddle beside her. Peals of laughter mingled with the sound of thunder overhead.
Catching sight of a park on the opposite side of the road, she grabbed his hand and ran towards it. Letting himself be led, he ran to keep pace with her, unconcerned about the rain soaking his clothes, all of his attention focused on her. The smell of wet soil greeted them as they reached the entrance of the deserted park. He couldn't help but stare. It seemed like something out of a storybook. The manicured lawns, the rain giving the grass a translucent quality so that it seemed like perfectly cut emeralds had been sprinkled on the ground. Bushes dotted the park at regular intervals, each with a different type of flower in full bloom, daffodils and hyacinths, tulips and lilies, each vying for attention, each adding their notes to the symphony of the park, somehow holding on to their individuality while being part of the whole puzzle.
He turned to see her walking barefoot on the grass, her sandals in her hand, looking at him with those eyes, eyes he could drown in, renaissance eyes. The dimples of her cheeks deepened as she smiled at him. They walked together, she with her sandals in hand on the grass and he on the path laid out through the lawn with stone. Neither said a word, and yet neither wanted to, each content with just the others presence, the comfortable silence only broken by the sound of the rain.

The sound of the fountain crept up on them, the water gushing down the rocks, an extravagant mans attempt at bringing nature into the city. The large fountain modelled a pond with a small waterfall, complete with rocks at the edge. Settling on one of the rocks he dangled her feet in the make believe pond. Seeing that she'd settled down, he struggled with his laces of his shoes and socks, hopping about on one foot and then the other. She laughed softly at his clumsy predicament, his ears heating up in response. Settling down next to her, he cautiously dipped his feet in the water. They stared at the surface of the water, ripples spreading out from where their feet dangled meeting the ripples created by the waterfall. Her breath quickened as his hand brushed hers, goosebumps spreading up her arm.

"Do you have a coin?", she asked.
"Um, sure ....", he said as he fished out a shiny new coin from his pocket.
She took it from him and tossed it in the water. Only then did he notice that the bed of the fountain was glittering with coins, each of them telling a story, each of them a hope, a wish that may or may not have come to be.
"I wonder how many of those wishes came true," she said, staring into the pond, as though looking for the answer to her question.
He turned and looked down at her, "What did you wish for?"
She looked up at him with those deep brown eyes, her face close enough to his so that he could feel her breath on his face. Butterflies with jet engines propelling them took off in his stomach.
"I think it's about to come true", she said and closed her renaissance eyes.

A New Machine

We walked out onto the desert, under the searing sun, where just a few hours ago, the sky had two suns, not one. One of the others behind me said something I couldn't make out through the gas mask he was wearing. We walked uncomfortably towards the waiting jeeps, each of us with our own thoughts, trying to negotiate the distance to the jeeps in the stifling suits, each of us trying to come to terms with what had just happened ... what we had helped happen.
We piled into the two jeeps, all twelve of us. I touched the pouch at my waist, making sure my camera was there and the spare one next to it .... you never know what might happen and this was too important for me to screw up.
One of the men said in muffled voice, "We can't stay there too long, a few minutes at the most. So you guys had better do what you need to do real quick."
Three of the men nodded back to him, including me. Quick! I'd rather not be here at all, given half a chance I'd turn and run all the way back home, all the four hundred and fifty miles back.
The jeep bucked and threw us about all the way, about ten miles ... less than five minutes, it felt like a lifetime. It's only a lifetime. A lifetime in a span of five minutes, five agonizing minutes until we saw what we'd help accomplish ... I wish those five minutes really had been a lifetime.
The jeep in front of us stopped, somebody called back, "We can't go any further, we'll blow the tires if we do."
How would we blow the tires in a desert? I thought the man was off his rocker. I got out of the jeep with the others. We started to walk ahead and I understood what he meant. My feet landed with a crack on a green, glassy rock that crumbled beneath my weight. I saw more of the stuff ahead of us, a lot more. I photographed a sample of the stuff and followed the others.
"Hotter", said one of the men looking at a Geiger counter, it's crackling piercing the silence between us.
We continued walking, stepping on more of the green glass ... our steps became slower, smaller as though we didn't really want to continue. I know I didn't, but we did anyway and I kept clicking away, a photographic record of man's greatest achievement ... of man's greatest mistake.
"Hotter", said the man again with more urgency ... the Geiger counter emphasizing his point.
And yet, we continued.
I don't think any of us were prepared for what we saw ... after all, we didn't know what to expect, this had never been done before ... now I wish we'd left it that way.
There was a crater with more chunks of that glass, it must have been at least a thousand feet wide and there we were ... twelve men standing at the edge of it. Standing at the cusp of an age of awe. At the cusp of an age of horrors. At the cusp of the atomic age.
"It's too hot, we can't go down there", said the man with the Geiger counter, the needle going crazy in its glass case.
One of the men turned back, a folder in his hand, "The Manhattan Project: Trinity", printed across its cover. He put his hand on the shoulder of one of the men staring into the crater, the other flinching as though the hand weighed a ton.
"Thank you, doctor. This wouldn't have been possible without you."
The doctor fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face onto the gas mask and evaporating before they could fall off. "What have I done?! Forgive me!"
The world changed that day, some say for the better, others disagree.
All I know is, on that day we realized this change, that even with regret, could never be undone.
--
On September 11th (how fucking ironic) 2007, Russia had a press release stating that they'd tested "The Father of All Bombs."
There are two quotes that stood out -

"The main destruction is inflicted by an ultrasonic shockwave and an incredibly high temperature," the reports said. "All that is alive merely evaporates."

Followed by -
"At the same time, I want to stress that the action of this weapon does not contaminate the environment, in contrast to a nuclear one."

I was laughing so fucking hard, there were tears in my eyes.
--
A few people asked me what the 'The Manhattan Project' was. Relevant links below:-
The Manhattan Project
Trinity Test

Brothers In Arms

This is the end of "The Post War Dream." I suppose one could call it an epilogue and "The Sound of Silence" would be a prologue.
I hope this will answer all of the questions that people have asked me about these characters, at least I've tried to address all of them.
--------

The high ceiling of the church seemed shrouded in mystery, its secrets held dearly by the shadows. The dark beams holding it up seemed almost an extension of the shadows that reached out and crawled down the walls to the ground, holding them up against the outside world, letting in only a little of it at a time through the stained glass windows shaped like arrow slits in a castle moulded into facsimiles of legends and myths gone by. Each window with its own story to tell, it's own myth to immortalize. Here, the last supper, the bright table brimming with food and drink, there, Christ carrying the cross on his back, a cross as dark as the shadows high up in the church, dark as the doors that were opened wide.
People shuffled in, brushing off drops of rain from their black coats or dresses. Mothers fawning over their children, making sure that their little heads were dry, all as quietly as possible, lest the shadows be offended.
Up and down the aisle they walked, finding places to sit down, some close to the altar, some close the the doors. A trickle unchecked can turn into a flood, the church filled with people before long, standing next to the benches, sitting on the floor close to the doors, leaning on the walls and pillars, only the aisle between the benches was left unoccupied and yet not one soul said a word, a hush settled over the church, unlike any it had ever known. They waited, almost afraid to speak, lest the shadows be offended.
A rhythmic tapping and the sound of rubber flapping against the granite floor. A man, advanced in years, limped down the aisle aided by his plain dark walking stick. Surprised stares followed him as he walked down the aisle. Sporting a bright blue floral print shirt, khaki shorts and rubber slippers he walked with as much a swagger he could manage, completely oblivious to the people around him, to the shadows above him. He walked down the aisle with an air of purpose, a man who had something to do, something to achieve, something to say. Eyes, whispers and a few smiles followed him the entire length of the aisle. Eyes and whispers of the outraged and smiles from the people who knew him. He kissed a woman sitting in the first bench on her cheek, patted her hand and walked up the stairs to the podium on the altar.
He shuffled about in his pockets to find his spectacles and a piece of paper, the sounds amplified through the church by the microphone set up at the podium, shushing the whispers again.
"Good Morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming," he said in a quivering voice. "While I get myself together, I'd like you to read something. In the bible stands of your benches you'll find a few sheets. I'd like you to take those out and read it. I know its sort of unorthodox, but hey, you've got nothing to lose, right?"
A smile split his face almost in two. The shuffling of papers replaced the hush that had settled over the church. The people in the benches offered the papers to the people standing and kneeling once they had finished reading it. Minutes passed, the shuffling died down, once more replaced by a hush and an occasional sob from those particularly moved by its contents.
"Alrightey, I think everybody's finished reading. I am the subject of that letter and the best friend of its author. Him."
The old man pointed over his shoulder to the large picture of a man next to the dark wood coffin on the altar.
"I know that most of you think that I shouldn't be up here, dressed like this, that I should show some respect for the departed. I didn't respect him all of the years I've known him, I'm not about to start now. Ok, that's not entirely true, I did respect him for a lot of things, just don't anybody tell him that, it'll be our little secret," he said with a smile and a wink.
"We said that at the end of our days we'd get a place near a beach somewhere and spend the days in the sun. I couldn't give him that, I felt that at the end of his days I'd at least give him the semblance of that, hence my choice of wardrobe. That's the first of many letters he wrote to my mother over, oh, about five years, I believe. He became a son to her, visited her often, kept her company when I wasn't around to do it, right up until she passed away. Her dying wish was that he cremate her if I wasn't around to do it. He did."
The man's voice quivered as he spoke.
"A good man. A very good man he was. When I got out of the camps and back home he was there at the gate waiting for me. I remember seeing him there, cigarette in his hand, trying to look very cool with his long, gelled hair. Waiting with that wide grin of his. I always told him it'd split his face in half. I mean it! Literally! The grin would start at one ear and go right up to the other. Like this."
The man at the altar grinned wide fetching a few from his audience.
"Anyway, there he was and there he stayed, since that day up until a few days ago, right by my side."
The man paused to collect himself, took a deep breath.
"He'd already started a small business for himself, investing some of 'my' inheritance, he said. And that's how we started. I lived with him after that. Two bachelors living together, I'm sure you can imagine what kind of life we had. But then things had to change. He met the beautiful woman you see in the front row."
He pointed to the lady he kissed on the way to the altar.
"They gave me a family. There's been only one time I've walked down the aisle at a wedding, to give away 'our' daughter. Each one of us holding one of her arms."
He blew a kiss to one of the women sitting on the first bench. She held onto a young boy in her lap, crying into his hair.
"You should have seen the two of us at the end of that day. Two grown umm... men of advancing years, sitting on the floor, quite drunk, bawling our hearts out."
Smiles graced many of the faces in the room. Sunlight streamed bright through the windows, the beams of the church gleamed darkly.
"Look at her now. Look at that little fellow in her arms. Brilliant chap, he is. First in his class and he can paint better than I can! You'll learn much more than I'll ever know, kiddo."
The old man whistled loud, two quick notes. The child quickly looked up and around in response to the familiar sound. His searching eyes found the old man and a smile broke out on his young face.
"XXXXXX wasn't all good though. Mischeivious bugger, Impish, I'd say. He once flicked a cop's helmet. I'm sure many of you don't know that story. So here we are, it's around half past midnight, we've been out drinking up until then and none of us wanted to drive, so we start walking home, three of us. There's a bike cop writing a ticket for someone he's just pulled over. Of course, the first thing that pops into my head is that I like his helmet. So I dare XXXXXX that he can't get that helmet. 'Youuu thhinkk I can't get thatt hellmet? Jusst you wait, misssy'". He pauses to let the snickers and the laughs die down.
"He said that exactly how I said it just now and off he goes almost at a run. I'm not kidding! The cop's busy writing in his book and this bugger nicks the helmet and continues walking. Come over to our house anytime, I'll show it to you. Thankfully, I didn't place a wager on that dare."
The woman in the front row with the child in her arms laughs through her tears.
"You think that's nuts, for those of you who know his wife, you'd know that her father was the owner of one of the towns largest hotels. This is how he first met his father in law. The three of us, I had to tag along, of course, being family and all of that .... we're sitting in the restaurant of the hotel waiting for her dad to come down and meet us. 'Meet the parents' time and all that jazz. He was nervous as hell and I was getting horribly bored. We'd been waiting for a while, you see. There was a bowl of salted peanuts on the table, don't ask me why they were there, they just were. I started tossing them in my mouth. He saw what I was doing and followed suit. Next thing you know we're juggling them and tossing one into our mouth with each loop. A few minutes of that and we're throwing it into each others mouth across the table, all of this while XXXXX's trying to stop us. Now of course as luck would have it, just at that moment, her father has to walk in and she screams 'Daddy'. Why do women have such shrill screams? Anyway, my aim goes out the window and the peanut lands bang in XXXXXXs eye. So, the first ever chat he has with his future father-in-law is in the hospital emergency room."
Snickers and giggles turned to open laughter filling the church, touching the high ceiling. The shadows at the top seemed to lessen just a little.
"However, I think this takes the cake -- we got thrown out of a pub ... I know it's hard to do, but we managed to do it. Again, we're pretty bored one night and we go out thinking we'll get a drink, but once we get there, neither of us really wants to drink. Here we are, a couple of bachelors, bored out of our skulls with absolutely nothing to do. If the idle mind is the devil's workshop then XXXXXX's mind was the place that every devil was working in. He just walks over to table that a couple is sitting on. Grabs a glass and takes a sip with both of the people at the table staring at him. 'I just wanted to see how it tastes' he says nonchalantly. All of this while, I'm staring at him from the bar, wondering what he's upto. When I asked him about it when he got back, he said, 'You're bored aren't you.'" He pauses to control his laughter.
"Long story short, we got thrown out that day after tasting about thirty or so drinks between the two of us," he said as he burst out laughing. Wiping a tear from his eyes "Good days, good days. We had our share of those. More than our share. Our share of bad days too, we got through those though. He helped quite a few other people get through theirs too. I think that's why there are so many people here today." His eyes surveyed the people in the room ... standing in the aisles, next to the benches, seated on the floor, leaning against the wall.
"He was just about to walk out of an ATM once and a man asked him for help. He claimed not to know how to use the ATM. XXXXXX takes the card from the man and inserts it, he asked the man for the PIN number, he had to explain that it's a four digit number used to identify the owner of the card. The man took out a piece of crumpled paper and smoothed it out in his hands. XXXXXX told him that there wasn't enough money in the account and that he was about a thousand bucks short. The man's face fell, he said that he thought the money was there, he needed to pay his son's school fees. No prize for guessing what XXXXXX did next, let's just say that he came out of the ATM a thousand bucks lighter than he was supposed to."
Eyes glistened in the light streaming in through the windows.
"He touched the lives of a lot of people. Helped a lot of them. I always told him he was too trusting ... he always told me I was too paranoid. I think that's why we were friends."
Men dressed in black waistcoats and bow ties had walked into the church while the man on the altar was speaking, each with a tray in their hands. They went around offering glasses to the people in the church.
"I kiss a beautiful woman goodbye every morning when I leave the house. She's married to him."
"I have three incredible children. They call him 'Dad'."
"I have a brilliant grandchild who calls my friend 'Granda'."
"My friend was a good man. He gave a lot of himself. He gave me a family."
"XXXXXX led a full life, a good life. He gazed at the stars with his children, taught them about the constellations. He dandled his grandson on his knee, played hide and seek with him. He had the love of a good woman and the respect of all who knew him. He led a good life. So, ladies and gentlemen, please join me in celebrating his life."
He turned to the back of the altar and gestured to the person sitting behind the curtains. Frank Sinatra's 'I did it my way' resounded through the church. Picking two glasses from the tray a waiter was holding, he held them up and shouted over the music, "To XXXXXX."
The shadows retreated to the place from whence they came.
Every single person in the church stood and raised their glasses.
He limped to the coffin and placed one of the glasses at its head.
"Our last drink together?" he said with an impish smile on his face.
He kissed the coffin and whispered, "Let me bid you farewell, every man has to die."

Invisible City

Nik stared out the window at the dim lights of the train station as they pulled into it. The brakes made his teeth jar, kind of like the way chalk on a blackboard did. The shadows played across his face as the waning of one light turned into the waxing of another. It looked like someone was staring at his face frame by frame in slow motion.
"Will you be alright, son? Is someone coming to the station to pick you up?" asked the old man in the seat across from him.
"Yes, my aunt is coming to the station" Nik lied.
The old man settled back in his seat, satisfied that the young lad would be taken care of.
Nik, relieved that the old man hadn't probed too much or offered to wait with him for his aunt, turned his attention to collecting his things - the green "Scooby Doo" colouring book, his crayons, his soiled handkerchief that he'd used as an eraser in the absence of a real one. He carefully stuffed all of his things into his olive green canvas school bag along with his Batman action figure, the few clothes he was carrying and his most prized possession, a clay piggy bank, pink in colour, complete with the snout and coiled tail. The clasps on the bag closed with a soft click. Nik double checked the clasps, like he'd been taught. Satisfied, he bent to put on his floaters. Grabbing the one he saw, he got on the floor searching for the other of the pair under the benches of the booth. Retrieving the floater from the recesses of the bench he drew his hand back carefully so as not to disturb the cockroach he found staring at him.
The sight of the bug had put an extra spring in Nik's step. He fastened his floaters, collected his solitary bag and ran straight for the door to the train compartment, the sound of the old man's goodbye barely even registering in his racing mind. The screech of the brakes resounded through the silent compartment, a few snores the only other sound to be heard. The disadvantage of reaching your destination in the middle of the night and ahead of schedule to boot. The compartment swayed as the brakes kicked in, pushing Nik off his feet and into the sleeping form of a man soon to become quite disgruntled. He woke with a grunt and stared at his attacker, or his prey. His eyes gleamed in the sparse lighting, holding Nik to his current position. The movement of the man's hand broke the spell the boy had been put under, his young legs carrying farther and faster than he thought were possible. He reached the end of the compartment just as the train stopped at the platform. Jumping off without giving it a second thought, Nik continued to run away from the man, who hadn't even found his way out of his blankets yet, who loomed larger than the Beanstalk's giant in Nik's mind, whose eyes gleamed like the wolf's.
Nik ran past the dirty metal pillars, through puddles of water, over refuse dumps, ahead of desperate porters and disparate passengers until he ran out of platform to run on. Caged by a once white metal fence that loomed large over his head, he grabbed the rusted bars of his cage, struggling against them. He pushed against them, pulled at them, tried to lift them off the ground, tried to climb over them to the other side ... anything to get to the other side ... anything to get away from the eyes in the dark.
Holding onto the bars he sank to the ground, broken. He wanted to go back home. Settling down on the dirty ground with his back to the bars he put his face between his legs, remembering who he was, remembering what he was, remembering where he came from. Holding desperately onto his identity lest the memory slip away from him into the black hole of the city.
The smell of spices as he stepped into the house after playing with his friends in the evening.
The sound of anger mixed with amusement when he came back from playing in the dirt.
The feel of strong arms holding him when the sound of anger drove him away.
The sensation of a large hand engulfing his own as he crossed the road.
The grooves of a wooden cane he held onto as he walked through the park so that he wouldn't get lost.
Wrinkled hands feeding him a sweet, brushing away the hair from his eyes as he ate.
He sat there with his head resting on his knees, his back against the fence, aching to go home, weeping for he used to be, weeping for who he wanted to be. His resolve weakened,
under attack by his sweet memories.
He remembered the angry voice that tore away the dirty clothes from his body.
He felt his cheek burning where those large hands had slapped him.
He felt the end of the wooden walking stick prodding him to move faster.
He felt those wrinkled forcing medicine into his mouth.
His resolve strengthened, quenched in his bitter memories, but it had developed cracks. Cracks through which doubt flowed ... he wanted to go back home. He wanted to see his parents and his grandparents. He wanted to be the apple of their eyes again, even if it meant having to hold the bitter seeds. He wished he'd never run away. The sounds of the city swallowed his sobs, the rattle of the trains, the sounds of traffic outside the station, the sound of footsteps coming closer.
Wolf's eyes stared at Nik from the darkness, shining with anticipation in the sparse illumination of the overhead lamps. The man walked slowly towards Nik, his designer shoes polished so that they gleamed in the shadows, the only other part of him that could be seen apart from his shimmering eyes. A grin spread across his face, baring his teeth in a rictus of anticipation as he stared at the little boy on the floor.
"What's wrong, son? Why are you crying?" he asked, stepping out of the shadows into circle of light.
The deep voice startled Nik back to the present.
"I'm not crying!" he said as he wiped away his tears.
Nik's eyes widened as he recognised the man standing before him. Once again he was fixed in place, staring at the man's eyes. He didn't even notice the bulldog shaped face or the grey suit that the man was wearing, the red silk tie or the or sparkling gold rings.
The man approached the boy slowly, as though expecting him to bolt at the slightest movement. Nik's eyes were fixed on the man, though, like a bird hypnotised by a snake. He didn't move a muscle, he didn't even think of moving a muscle. The somewhat heavyset man struggled to crouch ahead of Nik's knees and offered him a silk handkerchief.
"Here, wipe your tears. Big boys don't cry."
Nik made no movement to take the handkerchief. In fact, he made no movement at all.
The man reached out and wiped the boys tears himself. The touch of the silk against his cheek seemed startled Nik out of his trance.
"I'm not crying!" he said in a quivering voice.
"Of course not, you're a big boy. Big boys don't cry!" came the kind response.
"Yes!" said Nik with confidence that he didn't feel.
"Where are you from?" the man asked.
Nik shied away from him, pursing his lips as though to will them from not opening. 'Never talk to strangers', the phrase kept playing in his head.
The man sat down next to him and started to search his coat. Fishing out a lollipop from his breast pocket he handed it to the boy.
"Go ahead. Take it" the man urged.
Nik looked at the lollipop intently. Exactly like the ones his grandmother bought from him. He reached warily and grabbed the lollipop from the man's hand. The wrapping was off and the confectionery in his mouth in a flash. The smile on the man's face grew a little wider.
"Now, where are you from?" he asked again.
"My village. I'm going back on the next train." Nik said with false bravado.
"Ah, ok. Do you know when the next train is?" the man asked in all practicality.
"I'll find out from the man at the station. He wears a red coat. He knows everything about the trains. He even showed me the engine of the train before we left from my village."
Nik's eyes gleamed with the awe he felt seeing all of the levers and dials in the engine.
"And how are you going to pay for the ticket?"
Nik turned to his bag and carefully retrieved his piggy bank.
"Here, I have money. See!" he said shaking the clay pig, smiling at the sound the coins made. The man smiled right back at him.
"So you're going to break that open?" he asked with a mock sad expression on his face.
Nik put the pig in his lap and stared at it for a couple of seconds.
"Well .... I have to, don't I" he said sadly, looking up at the man.
"No, you don't. I'll pay for your ticket and you can come and stay with me tonight, I'll even drop you to the station in tomorrow" the man said. His hand found its way to Niks thigh and gently started massaging it.
"You'd do that?" Nik asked him delightfully, ignoring the goosebumps that had risen on his thigh.
"Of course" the man said, staring at the boy's thigh, feeling his skin pebble against his palm.
"Everybody always told me that the people in the city were not nice. But you're a very nice man."
"Oh, there are a lot of nice people in the city. This is the first time you've come to a city?" he probed.
"Yes. I've heard a lot of good things about it. And bad things too." Nik volunteered.
"Tell me what you know about it. But first, welcome to the city ...."
Where no one sees nothing, he thought to himself.
----
Approximately 30% of the populace under the age of 18 has suffered some form of sexual abuse.
World day for prevention of Child Abuse is on November 19th.