by Tristan Foster
He went to these places, one day standing in the shadows at the back of the hall and breathing its old book smell, sitting in hard chairs with his fists on his knees the next, in the hope that he, simply by being here, could participate in some miracle.
Size was not a concern. What he wanted was something he could walk home with, shoes scratching on the footpath, hold in the dark and think about, and that his thinking about would have no effect on. Something impenetrable. He planned to take it and carry it around with him afterward, to wear it around his neck and under his shirt, kept close to be held between fingers whenever he needed to remember. A thing that was beyond and apart from what he knew, and to question it would make him become aware of the extremities of his skull.
One time he was there and a storm was at the door, an angry wind, which shook the trees and roof beams and sent leaves tapping at the coloured windows like rain. He thought maybe this was it; others leaned away suspiciously, and he knew they thought it was too. But it was only leaves, thrown at the window out of a grey sky.
So he went and listened, mouthing a response like the others, and he waited, eyes wide.
Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. His work has appeared in print and in code. He blogs things of varying obscurity at http://leadigloo.com/.