Hot Pot Magazine

By E. F. S. Byrne

The sky blazed with anxiety. I walked down the steps carefully, one by one, sunlight
glinting off marble, forked lightening across my eyeballs. A pigeon swooped. My arms
waved in fright while my fingers felt my hair for droppings. Tourists swarmed as I left
the soft grass of the park and approached the square. Restaurants sang with the sound of
chilled wine and shrill voices ordering, swooning, romancing or simple squabbling in
the heat. The cool stone arch was an inviting challenge, a statue of tolerance looming
proudly over the swarming hoards. They ignored me at their peril.

I hadn’t been to a museum for years. The doorway waved invitingly like clean clothes
billowing in the breeze. The arch hung overhead, shady and deep against the blistering
sun, the swirling swarm of voices rocketing off a cloudless sky. My nerves tingled like
ants on a mission. I queued patiently amid the tourists until I bled in among them and
sucked cool air-conditioned breaths as the hallway opened into a blooming sparkle of
colour and light. My lungs froze. I gasped gently, my heart striking a new pace while
my gaze sucked up splashed emotions, tangled thoughts frozen into oblique shapes and
crystal clear vibrancy. Picasso and others stared as if they had been waiting for me
forever, as if I were the first born, the messiah who would finally understand, exhale
new life and release them from their cage. I knew all about being locked away.

Feet shuffled across the shiny floor, hands ruffled pockets, whispers sliced through the
stillness like flies on raw meat. A shiver tingled my spine, the sensation of anxiety or
annoyance at the muffled interference. A haggle of bodies were flustering in a corner by
the entrance. I moved out of sight then looked closer. For a little extra, they were
grabbing headphones, recorded explanations, sound bites to explain the
incomprehensible, audio clips summarising the deep colours and splashes of force into
crisp disposable nuggets. My cheeks whimpered in scorn but my ears tingled in
anticipation. Earplugs were just the thing to quell the pointless babble behind my eyes. I
had forgotten how maddening the crowd could be.

I paid and punched rubber into their sockets on the side of my head. I fiddled with the
handset. The language options left me cold. I found the volume switch and turned it up
until all I could hear were the monotones in my head, vaguely guiding me through the
picturesque array of paintings. The voice in my ear had a calming effect as it blocked
out everything else leaving nothing but the images themselves speaking through my

eyes. The curious effect of sound filling my head emptied my mind and left a blank
canvas. I vaguely tried to identify the language I had chosen before realising I was
speaking in tongues and that everyone could understand if they only bothered to listen.

I moved through the gallery like a honeybee in bloom, a skier slicing mountains into
neat lines of achievement. Splotches of colour spattered the horizon, the sun rose, the
clouds blossomed into fleeting glimpses of understanding, shapes forming, and then
weaving through obstacles until they regained the form of subconscious dreams.

Encased in the headphones, protected from the suffocating whirl of bodies shuffling in
unison, I framed my own visions, stamped the still images on the walls into tight sticks
of dynamite flickering in my brain. Chilled air sucked my lungs dry. My tongue rasped
my mouth as it froze in wonderment. A room full of statues, still life froze into place
leaving me as still, motionless and as full of vibrant hope as art itself.

My steps lightened, my gaze billowed. Eyes warping, brain thumping, I wandered
through a maze of strobing colours, lines bending into fractions, twisting like satellites
losing their orbit. I heard myself apologize as I bumped into shadows. I turned up the
volume and locked the world out. It hovered like clouds on the edge of the world,
shimmering, billowing into shapes that were vaguely familiar before scattering and
scurrying before leaving a lasting trace.

They tried to stop me on the way out. I didn’t notice. I skirted by offending hands trying
to clutch the head set and drop it back into its cardboard box. I felt myself smiling,
waving them aside. No need. No bother. I would take them with me.

I imagined shouts as people fumbled into cluttered knots in my wake. I felt a laugh
twinkle my lips silently as I darted across traffic and snuggled under the shadow of
startled elbows. My instincts were sharp, fine knives glinting in the sharp sunlight. I cut
down side streets where the hustle rustled into a gentle slipstream, shadows lengthening
as buildings buckled under the heat.

The park gate broke across the sky with the sheer energy of a child screaming at a spilt
ice-cream cone. I trundled through the archway oblivious. The crinkle of dry leaves
under foot, the sharp chuckle of gravel slithering deviously, the smell of dog poo
nestled but slippery at the feet of taunt tree trunks, the gentle familiarity all eased my
approach.

I hastened across the crinkled grass, browning like a cake ripening in the oven. I
stumbled against the first step, then hauled my knees briefly up the next ones and forced
myself upright over the plinth. A crouch, a leap, a sprightly jump and I stood there,
lording over the grounds, the bleached patch of earth and sky I could call my own. I
clutched at the headset, swung the plastic clean and flung it away into the bushes. I
regained my isolation. The world swung to a halt before me, encased silently in the
museum that had become my thoughts. I blossomed in the fading light, my pedestal a
monument to those who know they are right and no longer have to listen. I glared into
the silence, daring anyone to challenge my position.

E. F. S. Byrne works in education and writes when his teenage kids allow it. He blogs a regular micro flash story. Links to this and over fifty published pieces can be found at efsbyrne.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @efsbyrne