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On a very hot afternoon, the young man stood. The grey path snaked to the vanishing point in the infinite void ahead, across a great sea of dirt. The young man stood, afraid for folding on himself if he walked. He felt sick enough that he found and remembered the gag reflex, and almost doubled over to be sick, but he recalled that there was nothing in the hole. The young man ignored the temptation to look at the dog, settling to continue listening to the simple steady panting. That was important, he remembered, the panting. More than anything.
He didn’t need reassurance, it was just another day on the gravel path. There were thorns on this path this time, but that was because they needed to remove the fruit. Everyone knew that you need to endure the thorns to remove the fruit. The thorns were nothing, and we needed to remove the fruit.
He suddenly felt exhausted. He felt like he’d been walking for days, and he tried to turn to see his progress, but found he could not, and only stared at the same grey path, snaking to the same vanishing point across the same sea of dirt. A mosquito floated past, and zoomed away as he thought on slapping it. One couldn't be too careful with mosquitoes, you never know what disease they might have a chance of carrying. He listened to the steady panting of his dog, and reflected on its importance. It was precious, like the dog. He looked to the dog for reassurance ... and cursed. He tried to undo it. His neck stiffened. Too late, his head was already turned and there was no unturning it. He wailed in despair as the panting stopped. He flailed violently, trying to reach the sounds. He needed to catch the panting! He screamed, a horrible, high-pitched wail that shattered the glass sky. The world crumbled.
The young man wearily lifted his face from his pillow. He stared for a moment, and started sobbing.
narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One Page 10
