Jonah lives in his box. A compact box on the north side of town. It comes with a fitted kitchen and on-looking views of trashcan city. Everyday, when he wakes up to the sound of lorries backing up, he rubs his eyes and remembers who he is.
He is Jonah.
Twenty three. Five foot, 8 inches.
He likes premium coffee and finding bargains. He likes remembering trips to the beach.
That was before the flies came.
When he was a younger boy, before the alarm clock gave him headaches, and the streetlights came on early, Jonah would visit places. His legs would carry him; to the crumbling cliffs that gather current; to the deep lakes, still and solemn as mercury. And to the trees, he remembered, where they were making their way to the sky. Their green fingers reaching to tickle the clouds in orbit.
And Jonah could feel that it was all his.
That was the most beautiful thing of all.
Before the flies came.
When Jonah was a younger boy he would inhale.
He would sing.
His chords would stretch and harmonise; twist themselves together and unwind, like strange, and lovely unravelling things.
He would drink.
Thickly. Filling himself up with the world.
And in the nights he would dig.
Dig into deeper nights, where someone once told him the wild things are.
Then came the flies. Gradually at first; emerging from his pockets, their newly born tissue wings unstuck from their bodies. And so Jonah went out. He took to the high street. He bought things in boxes to take back to his box. To box the flies away.
And Jonah was happy for a while. With his things about him, he did not mind the flies so much.
But then, sure enough, more came. They came in the post, inside the grey, buzzing envelopes that read ‘bills’. They came in swarms with his bank balance, with letters from the bureau.
They grew larger. Their bodies darkened. They became braver.
They hatched eggs in his wallet, in his savings account. They made nests in his suits, the lapels of his coat. They danced and swarmed inside his shoes.
Jonah was perplexed.
He bought insecticide.
He took a holiday. Ten days in Costa del Sol.
But the flies came too. They snuck into his passport and posed as stamps. They travelled in his travellers cheques. They followed him to the bars and clubs along the marina strip and ruined all his tidy holiday shots. They bathed in his Pina colada. Then they came home.
Back in his box, Jonah became angry. He lashed out at things; at himself. He let his milk turn sour. He set his watch five minutes fast. He worked overtime. He joined a gym.
Yet they came.
In their thousands.
And Jonah’s hate grew with his flies. His movements became aggressive, swatting at the darkness that enveloped him. He scratched and scathed; turned himself away from the day.
He knew no one.
And the world no longer felt like his.
So now, in this story, Jonah begins to run. He breaks his box on the north side of trashcan city and is surprised to see that it tears; just like cardboard. Nothing more.
Jonah tramples over the city. He loses his fear and his left shoe. He is surprised to find that the ground is not hard. It does not cut his feet like he thought it would.
The other shoe comes off.
And the ground lifts up its wings to meet him; like an old friend who waits in the arrivals lounge at midnight. When everyone else has gone to bed, has turned off their lights, has forgotten.
So Jonah runs. And the earth is alive to meet him. The earth sends grass to welcome his feet; air for his sore and pallid lungs. The sun, its celestial warmth, thaws him through and through. Do you wonder if he is grateful?
Jonah tramples over the city. He loses his fear and his left shoe. He is surprised to find that the ground is not hard. It does not cut his feet like he thought it would.
The other shoe comes off.
And the ground lifts up its wings to meet him; like an old friend who waits in the arrivals lounge at midnight. When everyone else has gone to bed, has turned off their lights, has forgotten.
So Jonah runs. And the earth is alive to meet him. The earth sends grass to welcome his feet; air for his sore and pallid lungs. The sun, its celestial warmth, thaws him through and through. Do you wonder if he is grateful?
Well, the flies, they come following behind like a big, black dog.
They are snarling? Perhaps they bite. They hold to his clothing, or to the dirt in his hair; with sticky hands and false teeth.
They are snarling? Perhaps they bite. They hold to his clothing, or to the dirt in his hair; with sticky hands and false teeth.
But for the first time, Jonah can see.
The river. Had it always been there? It lies before him, stolen from the mountain springs and the rainy skies. Gathered to this very place we are now.
Now, his box flashes up in his mind; its shallow pulse; its broken tethers flailing in the high-rise wind. Like your grandmother’s hands.
No. Jonah cannot go back.
Not now.
The river. Had it always been there? It lies before him, stolen from the mountain springs and the rainy skies. Gathered to this very place we are now.
Now, his box flashes up in his mind; its shallow pulse; its broken tethers flailing in the high-rise wind. Like your grandmother’s hands.
No. Jonah cannot go back.
Not now.
He throws himself, hurtling with the flies, to the river; where it gathers and grows to meet him with the seductive promise of drowning.
Jonah thinks that he will be like the stone in stone soup.
And it will all be over soon.
But as the water fills his shoes, seeps his clothes, pours into his ready, open mouth, Jonah hears the quiet.
And it is not the quiet of death.
But music that comes once the noise has stopped.
Softly.
Once the flies have gone.
And the river carried Jonah. In the belly of a whale, if you like.
To the Secret Garden.
To the Secret Garden.
Where Jonah still says, ‘I will not forget that I had forgotten.’
