As soon as it stopped raining, the Dead Man’s mother put sheets out on the balcony clothesline to dry. Then, even though it was midnight, she started to scrub the kitchen floor.

It had been raining for days. With his claustrophobia being compounded with the anxious energy of house chores, the Dead Man called a friend and asked him to meet – to get out of the house, get some fresh air, stretch their legs. The Dead Man had very skinny legs. Everyone was tired of the rain.

They were bored and broke and, anyway, everywhere had closed up against the rain. So they just walked. Threw stones at street cats. Walked to the park where the carnival was, even though they knew that it would be muddy and deserted. Ran out of things to say to each other so wandered through the alleyways in silence. Stopped at the top of the bridge over the river, catching the breeze and watching stars twinkle in the gaps between the clouds. Felt, briefly, in tune with something larger than the things they knew to be true.

The Dead Man watched the river for movement. While he waited, a thought came to him – remembered the fish painted on the walkway between buildings at school. Cartoon fish, yellow line drawing, maybe done by one of the school children in the years before his attendance. Bubbles rising from its mouth. He would contemplate the fish, careful not to step on it, and think about silence – listen, for a moment, for a split second, a millisecond, an epsilon of pure and total soundlessness. Was it even possible? The thought would always be crowded out by the din and clatter of playtime. 

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is the author of three books: the short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father, 926 Years with Kyle Coma-Thompson and Midnight Grotesques with Michelle Lynn Dyrness.