TALL STORIES
by Neil Root
The Perfect Hill
London, 1955
It’s the perfect hill.
There’s no sound on the hill tonight. All communication is dead, and the urban rats scurry far out of sight. I sit and breathe. There’s no agenda here. No hidden motives to make me feel as I feel. Thoughts are pure and whole.
I last came here as a boy. I used to hide here before the war. I had no friends then, and I have no real friends now. But I wish Marie had held on tight.
I wish I could bottle the air here and take it down below. Savour the fresh feeling it gives me. But I know I must return to the choking haze below. Gasp for air with an emotional emphysema.
I stand up and slowly throw the canvas bag over my shoulder. I sigh before I pick up the shovel. I never realised she was so heavy….
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