We listen to the flat man in our sleep, telling us stories of when the island was thriving. He lists a litany of names that he reads from stone tablets, with all their semi-legendary achievements. Some who came before us changed the world, while others just changed their raincoats and hairstyles, but a life’s a life and it is, after all, a time for remembrance and fulsome celebration. As for the flat man, he just changes the narrative, sliding himself into every significant role. There he is, sleeves rolled up, doling out a slap-up feast of loaves and fishes, hefting high the Gorgon’s head before a roaring crowd, and simply waving everyone off on their first day at school. He tells us how the island itself was born from his bones; how he breathed the firmament from his unconditional love, and how our tiny lives are nothing but crude paper dolls in the image of his perfect conception. And when we wake up, we ask if the flat man’s real, comparing those familiar stories and searching for evidence online. Someone says they once saw him queueing for a coffee, but I’m not sure I believe them.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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