At the foot of the rock

Zouis lived under the waterfall, his head in a permanent deluge as the sun bounced rainbows out of his ears.

Sometimes he lay on the rocks to dry on the violet banks of the river. With his back arched and toes curled, he swore he could feel his wrinkled skin flapping in the breeze.

When they moved the waterfall because it wasn't quite positioned to match the tourist guides, Zouis scooped puddle water into his face.

But it wasn't the same.

Zouis packed his possessions into a matchbox. He walked the path that led down the river that led to the desert.

The desert was large, yellow and dull.

He starred angel shapes into the burning sand and flecked off the skin deadened by heat.

The sun seared into the back of his brain all the craziness of humankind. Uninvited circles blocked his vision and he waved helpless arms to get rid of them. He tried to vomit the last contents of his stomach but he wretched until blood painted his chest. He licked his lips red raw.

Zouis collapsed at the foot of a rock at the foot of a dune taller than any waterfall he had seen.

He looked at the blue sky blurring now to grey and let his imagination deluge ice-cold colours into every pit of his body. He imagined and imagined until tears fell from his eyes.

The tear water formed momentary pools before steaming into the wind.

Zouis curled his toes. He was a waterfall again.