Mr No Name sits in his usual spot beside Adelaide Rose Davies. Tonight is quiet, dark, and it smells of half-dead roses from so many fresh graves. A man who used to have a name is now known as Mr No Name. A man not even worthy of having a first name. This evening he thinks about the smell of the half-dead roses on the breeze and what he lost. Tired, he lays his head down to sleep with his only friends, the dead in the cemetery. Homeless and alone, this is the only place he finds peace and quiet to sleep and dream of his painful memories. His memories of a loving wife, two loving daughters, a house full of light, and the day she walked away because he lost his business to a cruel recession. He dreams about his daughters in colour. Any money he has he spends on his mobile phone to see their faces from time to time. Sometimes, when he is lucky, he sees his wife holding the arm of that famous person. He sees her, and he falls in love every time. Laying there, he writes a message to both of his daughters on Messenger. Perhaps they will see it, or they won’t. He writes a forgiveness message of kindness and love to the mother of his children. There are no pillows anymore, no kisses from his girls, and no feelings of warmth and happiness to mend his broken heart. He rests his head on Adelaide’s grave, then asks a question he never thought he would ask, “Adelaide, can I please come down there with you? I always feel calm beside you.” The cemetery remains serene as the night moves along; there is no snoring anymore, for the broken heart stopped beating at 3:15 am. Ten minutes after his girls and the love of his life deleted his messages.
Walking towards work; dreaming about being rich, staying in bed, champers for breakfast, bending our legs together, and trying out the waffle maker.
Reality floods back and I realise my skirt is too tight; the Covid Spread, like a Biscoff addiction, gone wrong, has me in its hold.
Walking down the ally towards the office, noticing the Passion Pop bottles placed randomly near the old broken door, and feeling university nostalgia coming on like an awkward chance meeting.
Turning back, I see the brick wall, and a door leading to more bricks, pipes, a hidy hole for one. A cat passes over there looking for food in the bins, and I feel sad; humans shit me sometimes.
Standing in an ally, hoping no cars come by to take me from my thoughts, and staring into the magical Dandewrong wall portal, hoping it will take me to another dimension; away from the grind.
Nothing happens. It is a hole in the wall, and nothing more. Then I look again and think this is only a reminder of the crumbling history we once knew. Crumbling history before our eyes, as this place becomes something else.
Weeping from behind the brown door grew louder and louder until one could hear the crying from all corners of the house. The house lives and breathes something primal; malice lingers in the corners threatening those who venture to close to the flame. She is only six, so she knows things and sees things the adults choose not to see; things adults choose to forget. Weeping from behind the brown door stirs something forgotten in her soul as if she knows who occupies those walls. Taking a torch, she pads tentatively along the hall of rooms to the one that sits at the end; the one with the brown door. Experienced with keys and as sharp as a knife, she hastily acquires the key and puts the right one in the lock to see if it works. A click and movement are all the convincing she needs to enter without fear; only to find out why the weeping continues. Two eyes stare at her, and a quick movement frightens her, yet she holds her nerve and enters further still into the room. The eyes occupy a person, and the person is familiar to her; the person is her long-lost sister who was feared dead. Convinced at once that this is the chance, she takes her sister’s hand, they pad along the hall, and out into the night. The parents awoke the next morning to two empty rooms. Two sisters swept up by a vanishment that created a legend. For the girls, they made their way through the forest and into the night; now they live countries away without fear of the night.
Anna walks towards the path. Just before the path stands a man rubbing a leaf.
Perplexed she asks, “What are you doing?”
Silence follows. She repeats the words.
He looks, “I’m just collecting ideas.”
“Ideas for what?”
“I write poetry…”
“You’re a #Poet! Let’s talk more.”