Talk to Paul Kavanagh on the Fictionville blog
Finchley sat atop of the hill and traveled with his one good eye the undulating hills. The hills were verdant and coruscating in the midday sun. A cold wind blew but Finchley was oblivious to the chill that permeated his cheap diaphanous clothing. The town loomed before him with its gray edifices, it gray little houses, its gray churches. Finchley loved the town. It was home. His home was a dilapidated, porous icebox atop of one of the towering gray edifices. If one expectorated from a great height the phlegm ejaculated would be no longer a ball of snot but through gravity flatten out like an egg. Through ennui Finchley spat a lot. Finchley you're thinking again, stated the goat sat beside Finchley. I'm not, extemporaneously produced Finchley turning to the goat. The goat was masticating ravenously upon the grass before it. I can see it in your eyes, said the goat after swallowing a mouthful of grass. O leave me alone and eat your grass, shouted Finchley exasperated by the goat's interference. Finchley knew it was otiose to circumambulate for the goat would inevitably follow. Finchley could not compute the days and nights the goat had been shadowing him. The reek the goat emanated had faded and the perpetual complaining for grass no longer perturbed. You're worrying about what I told you, stated the goat. I'm not, emitted Finchley eyeing a bus navigate through the labyrinthine streets. I can see it in your eyes, said the goat refilling his mouth with grass. It's just that, here Finchley stopped and watched a cloud sail over his own tower block. Let's go back home, tomorrow you can go back to work, said the goat. All this walking is making me hungry. I can't, it's pointless, said Finchley. Finchley had once been happily married. He had a perfect job in an office. He possessed five suits and six pairs of leather shoes. Finchley had once been extremely happy. This happiness had not been a façade, it had been real, tangible, concrete. Lost in amatory happiness Finchley had existed with a perpetual smile upon his face. Finchley didn't know if he still had a job, this quandary was a fleeting problem that was always ephemeral upon his what to do list. He didn't know if he still had a home. Finchley knew that he was no longer married, he had helped his wife to the waiting taxi with her bags. Finchley was good like that; he was an affable fellow, everybody at work thought good of him. You think too much, said the goat. I know, confessed Finchley. It's the thing I told you about four weeks ago, said the goat swabbing his mouth. It is, admitted Finchley. You're a speck, a bit of fluff, a grain of sand, said the goat. A cog in the machine, the waves of time will eradicate all memory of you. In three generations there will be no memory of a Finchley the office teamaker. All of your jokes will fade, your idiosyncrasies will no longer be discussed, if you are lucky some collector of antique photographs might purchase your portrait but there will be no name to identify the mug in the photograph. That's how it is. A question, do you remember your great great grandfather's name? Who was he? What was his favorite colour? Did he prefer coffee to tea? Had he read the Iliad? Did he dream of Helen? You don't know. Finchley saw a mother and child sauntering merrily upon the street the led to the moors. As a child he too had sauntered merrily with his mother. A smile incongruously materialized about Finchley's countenance. I'm losing you to quixotic daydreams, said the goat. It is inanition. Eat some grass. Finchley pulled a tuft of grass away from the terra firma and joined the goat in a pandial orgy. Together they voraciously munched upon the grass. Green saliva cascaded down Finchley's wan hairy chin. With a dirty tongue Finchley licked his lips and with relish filled his mouth with the dewy grass. Finchley eyed the goat and the goat eyed Finchley. The equanimity they shared was found once again in the reciprocation. Tell me about that thing again, said Finchley spitting out a globule of green vacuous spit. Well I told you about how the space between heaven and earth was not breached up stone and mortar but by words, said the goat. See Copernicus bridged the lacuna by illustrating that the earth, this paltry orb, was not the center of the universe. Thus man was once again dislodged.