The Jigsaw Floor – chapter one

Harper and Anders walked together, saying nothing. The only audible sound was the tinny, rhythmic collision of their bare feet with the metallic jigsaw floor.

‘Each piece perfectly tessellated,’ remarked Anders.
‘Hmmm,’ agreed Harper.

They continued on.

‘A friend of mine,’ said Harper, ‘once came across a piece. A piece of the floor. That didn’t quite fit.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Anders.
‘No. True!’
‘What happened?’ asked Anders.
‘I never saw him again. Just disappeared.’
‘Sounds like urban myth to me,’ said Anders.
‘No. A friend. Not a friend of a friend. True. I swear.’
‘He told you this himself?’ asked Anders.
‘No, he disappeared before he could tell me anything.’
‘I thought so,’ said Anders.

They kept walking.

It was a quiet day and not many people were out. Harper liked the quiet. Anders truly didn’t care either way.

‘Is it grammatically correct to describe the pieces themselves as tessellated? Or do they simply tessellate?’ Harper said.
‘Hmmm,’ said Anders, entirely unsure of what the difference was.

Harper’s left foot made an odd sound as it hit the floor. An irregular sound.
He stopped. And looked down.

And there, as he lifted his offending foot, he could see a gap. A gap in the floor.

‘Bollocks,’ said Anders.

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David Baillie is a freelance writer and artist. Born almost thirty years ago in Scotland, he now lives and works in the East End of London.

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