Short Story: The Listener.

Short Story: The Listener.

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

This balcony is my studio. On warm days I sit here with my eyes closed and sense the light forming a canvas in my mind. I concentrate on sounds, turning each like a jigsaw piece to assign colour before placing it in my imaginary painting.

When it seems there is silence I catch a gently rustling and soft movement of the breeze on my bare legs and face. This I imagine as green and wash it across my screen, darker at the bottom and becoming lighter towards the top. The high-pitched chirping on my right is a sprinkle of yellow and blue that flit a melody back and forth along my picture.

‘Will there be ice cream?’ a child asks.

‘That depends on Dad,’ a woman replies. ‘Look there’s his car. You can ask him yourself.’

‘I will’.

The sounds of them walking below the balcony is rhythmic and solid until their path seems hollow. I hear the steps reverberate as they trot over a wooden floor and an echo ripples upwards. I paint them hand in hand meandering as they chatter of creamy flavours. The sound of lapping grows louder and I brush in a narrow stretch of water, grey and curving. Then music from a saxophone bounces into the balcony accompanied by a melodic engine beat and sound of splashing. My imagination forms a large boat low on the water and I colour the hull black.

‘Hoy John, watch you don’t fall,’ someone shouts.

‘He’s not listening,’ comes a reply.

‘He’s close to the edge. He’ll fall.’

The music, the engine and the water sloshing like cymbals together playing their notes in harmony, so in my orchestra I dress them with tails and bows. I feel the boat shudder below the balcony and the engine picks up its beat, the water froths and bubbles. There is a lingering smell of diesel fumes as the music and throaty engine slowly pulls away. I don’t hear the splash of anyone falling so I draw a bubble of joy with happy notes in the air.

‘Look at all this blood. Did you fall off your bike?’ The woman asks loudly.

‘No I just stopped to look,’ a young man answered, ‘I heard there was a fight here last night.’

He heard? No I’ve heard that voice before.

The shouting, ‘Don’t you ever again touch Susie.’

The scuffling and punching, the screaming of agony followed by splashing. Then silence.

‘He deserved it. Get rid of it.’

I heard the plop of something drop into the water and the sound of running disappearing.

I will never see your view from my balcony or be able to walk and talk with you hand in hand along the path of the canal. But I live every day for my paintings displayed in the gallery of my memories. They are beautiful and full of colour. Today I now have the portrait of a murderer and the sounds of his sinister deed.