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In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me, grinning. Different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, two scarves - one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist ...
From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came a tinny music: some kind of jazz. No voices just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me, he stopped, and pointed. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he croaked. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What, what d’you mean?”
He retreated his pointing finger and with it scratched his wire-woolly beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! Hit him! said a voice in my head.)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think I -”
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the insidepocket of his coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why would I tell you to bring me a feather?” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me …
“What do I want with your bloody feather?”
He blinked. I smiled. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at him!)
He continued to stare at me … “You told me.”
“I told you nothing! Nothingnothingnothnothnothing!” I spat on the grass.
“You know why,” he croaked.
“I don’t. I haven’t got a clue.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching the feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, tears welling. “I have. Only the skeletons..”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished, and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up.”
We closed our eyes, lent our heads together, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me, grinning. Different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, two scarves - one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist ...
From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came a tinny music: some kind of jazz. No voices just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me, he stopped, and pointed. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he croaked. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What, what d’you mean?”
He retreated his pointing finger and with it scratched his wire-woolly beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! Hit him! said a voice in my head.)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think I -”
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the insidepocket of his coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why would I tell you to bring me a feather?” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me …
“What do I want with your bloody feather?”
He blinked. I smiled. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at him!)
He continued to stare at me … “You told me.”
“I told you nothing! Nothingnothingnothnothnothing!” I spat on the grass.
“You know why,” he croaked.
“I don’t. I haven’t got a clue.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching the feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, tears welling. “I have. Only the skeletons..”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished, and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up.”
We closed our eyes, lent our heads together, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.
Begone Mimodrama with your tramps in the park. Begone!
I thought I was going to understand what was happening, but I don't get whats going on at the end.
From "Only the skeletons in the graveyard can." on I had no idea.
From "Only the skeletons in the graveyard can." on I had no idea.
In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me, grinning. Different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, two scarves - one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist ...
From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came a tinny music: some kind of jazz. No voices just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me, he stopped, and pointed. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he croaked. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What, what d’you mean?”
He retreated his pointing finger and with it scratched his wire-woolly beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! Hit him! said a voice in my head.)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think I -”
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the insidepocket of his coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why would I tell you to bring me a feather?” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me …
“What do I want with your bloody feather?”
He blinked. I smiled. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at him!)
He continued to stare at me … “You told me.”
“I told you nothing! Nothingnothingnothnothnothing!” I spat on the grass.
“You know why,” he croaked.
“I don’t. I haven’t got a clue.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching the feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, tears welling. “I have. Only the skeletons..”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished, and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up.”
We closed our eyes, lent our heads together, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me, grinning. Different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, two scarves - one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist ...
From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came a tinny music: some kind of jazz. No voices just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me, he stopped, and pointed. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he croaked. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What, what d’you mean?”
He retreated his pointing finger and with it scratched his wire-woolly beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! Hit him! said a voice in my head.)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think I -”
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the insidepocket of his coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why would I tell you to bring me a feather?” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me …
“What do I want with your bloody feather?”
He blinked. I smiled. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at him!)
He continued to stare at me … “You told me.”
“I told you nothing! Nothingnothingnothnothnothing!” I spat on the grass.
“You know why,” he croaked.
“I don’t. I haven’t got a clue.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching the feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, tears welling. “I have. Only the skeletons..”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished, and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up.”
We closed our eyes, lent our heads together, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.