When Kasheen was younger his dad bought home an old golf ball, which he'd found. He called Kasheen over to watch as he removed the outer casing with a sharp knife. Kasheen must have been nine or ten. He remembers that when the white plastic had been removed it revealed a tightly compacted ball of tiny pink elastic bands. This brain-like mass stood inert on the table for a few seconds, Kasheen made a pretence of being impressed then turned away. His father, though, called him back. Slowly the bands started to move. A thin tentacle would suddenly shift from the whole, relieved of the pressure, which had kept it in place all these long years. With a jerk of relief the ball would throw out a trail of pink and go spinning across the table. It kicked and spun like a rodeo bull, then stopped again. A creaking noise may have been imagined as Kasheen and his father waited in anticipation. With untidy lines and trails hanging off like spaghetti the ball lay still. Then without warning it would dance again, disentangling itself untidily, jerkily, desperately. Over time the ball shrunk until all that remained was a hard, black core. Kasheen feels his life like this, a gradual unravelling. The pressure which held it together has been released and now it's just a matter of time until all the skin has peeled away to reveal the real him. He presumes that somewhere deep inside him there is a hard, black immovable sphere of realness. His essence; his soul. When the elastic bands had finished their spastic dance he seized on the ball as if on a treasure. The method of its exposure suggested a thing of great value. Kasheen could not help but be fooled. He examined the sphere; it had tiny etched lines on its surface but otherwise was extraordinary only for its insignificance. It was made from such a brittle plastic that it didn't even bounce. Kasheen's dad looked at the mess with a satisfied grin but Kasheen expected something more. After a few minutes he gathered the ball and the discarded rubber threads into his hands and threw the lot in the bin.

Want to comment on this Flash Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Flash Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...