Jack Hammer

Jack Hammer

Nobody knows what changed Jack; all they know is that he did change.
Jack stopped in his tracks beneath a tall sycamore tree and fell down
to his knees. It felt strange down there amongst the sticks and blood
red autumnal leaves but somehow right. He stared up at the sky and
watched a falling seed spiral down to earth. His eyes focused beyond it
until it became just a fuzzy dot as he watched a cloud shaped like a
club swing slowly across the sky. He blinked suddenly as it struck out
the sun. A tickle distracted him and he glanced down, just in time to
see a centipede run across his hand and hide under a log. Perhaps it
would rain soon? He blinked again. The log was the club he could see in
the sky, he stowed it under his arm and went on his way.

Beneath his coat he wore iron ploughshares, in his hair were twigs and
tattered flowers, and in his head rushed the mighty sound of the leaves
in the trees. This breeze he heard was so fierce that it blew the
feathers off songbirds and threw them to the ground. He pressed a muddy
finger into his ear and stepped on board a carriage at the back of the
train. It was hot and stuffy on this empty train that rattled and
bucked along the weed-strewn tracks from country to town. Jack became
impatient and thrust his head out of the window to see how far they'd
gone. The breeze outside sounded slow and weak compared to the one in
his ears; he sat back down again and pulled out his club. No wonder
they weren't moving when he was sitting still. Boom - the wall jumped
away from him as chipboard and aluminium was taught to be humble and
crumbled. Jack climbed through the gap and entered the next carriage.
There were seven carriages in total and as the train pulled into
Waterloo Jack made his way into the last. His nostrils flared as he
smelt the sour scent of the city, he flicked some chipboard from the
rags that clung to him like clothes and walked on along a path only he
could see.

Outside the main entrance to the station he felt the flap and snap of
London air against his face. Again it seemed so tiny compared to the
wind inside his head, so thin and frail that he could stifle it in the
palm of his hand. He bit his lip and left a glistening bead of blood to
dry on the station steps. Above him loomed the London Eye like tiny
twigs against the yellow sun. Further away was a huge cathedral and
nearer were the Houses of Parliament made small by perspective like a
matchstick town. He knelt down to run his tongue across a single blade
of grass towering from a paving stone. He tasted weed-killer and felt
any remorse he might have had in his heart wither and fall. He stood up
and ran; his footsteps sounded different away from the soft mossy
paths; they boomed like falling rocks across the hollow bridge above
the Thames. So this was what happened to all the fruit and roots they
stole from the land; they were turned into worthless monuments in the
flurry and scurry of London town.

He found himself in the shadow of Parliament's door and held his club
out before him. He felt his body sway and brushed a policeman off his
shoulder where he struggled on the floor. He raised his club again and
heard a shout that sounded quiet and he decided to ignore. Thunder
rolled behind him and soft lead bullets rained against his iron-sides
in a shower of sparks and winging, zinging birds that can only pretend
of fly. They thought he was dead but he lifted his club up against the
sky and watched it strike out the sun like the cloud he had seen
before. He knew the sycamore tree would help him now and found himself
back there, watching that same sun. He pictured himself spinning like
that falling seed and drilling himself into the safety of the
ground.

They watched in amazement as he began to slowly turn, right foot, left
foot gradually moving round, arms out like helicopter blades; he looked
as though he was trying to fly. A horsehair sight divided his head in
four and the finger on the trigger slowly moved towards its palm. For a
fraction of a second it looked as the bullet might bounce off his
forehead as the other bullets had bounced off his body before; then it
disappeared down a small round hole. A bright red flower hovered above
his head, a perfect flower that clung to the air like a crown and then
it started. The police marksman clutched his ears in pain. The roar of
the breeze beat around his head and threw him to the floor and the air
grew thick with flying things. Dancing bricks and paper and cars rose
slowly into the sky in a dense grey cloud. Deep in the forest, beneath
a sycamore tree, a centipede ran for cover as a cloud shaped like a
club moved towards the sun.