He lay in the tree, arms and legs draped over the long overhanging branch. They hung down, limp yet lean and muscular, a brown colour almost matching the dark bark of the tree in which he reposed; it looked almost as if he were of the same substance of the tree, were it not for a twitching finger or toe every now and then. The light hardly broke through the thick yellowy green foliage, and scattered broken shards of warmth onto the dead grass below. If the boy were to look up, he’d see nothing of much interest; only dead grass and leafy dry trees and maybe in the far distance some sombre park railings. Under the shade of the tree it was cool and an echo of a breeze was stirring, which shook his fuzzy fair hair and made his mahogany skin prickle.
In his slender hands he held a jam jar on a string. It swung regularly to and fro, to and fro. At the height of each swing it faltered briefly and shook, as the boys neat fingers picked and in a deft movement plucked out a long snaking worm. Each time he withdrew one of the creatures he would toss his hair to one side and look at it carefully, as if puzzled and surprised to be holding the little animal. He would then with a deft flick send it arching through the air, twisting and quivering, until it came to rest on the dry dusty ground, among a scattering of other worms, where it would wriggle in helpless agony with the others. Every ten seconds or so another squirming worm would come arching through the air and land with a soft thud and settle in the dirt near the last.
Now and then a dry scornful laugh comes from the tree. A quick flash of white of a perfect grin. The regular pit-pat of falling worms has been falling for quite a time, because there is quite a large pile; some moving, some motionless, dry and stale. It squirms and spreads, but not far; the pile keeps its shape. Any worm to fall off the hill, any brown grimy worm to fall from its place is quickly snatched up by a pink chubby hand and chewed stickily by a tiny mouth with irregular milk teeth and a cherub’s red cherry lips, chuckling all the while; small, shiny and pink in the bright harsh sunlight.
No sound is uttered on either part, only intermittently a devious laugh from the deep shade of the tree, and a bubbly chuckle from below. Only the tiny pit-pat of falling worms and the stiff rustling of the leaves and the brown boy in the tree are at all remarkable.