Where do all the ghosts dwell?

So Merceline had hobbled around the house like a wounded soldier, even though her legs and feet were perfectly fine. "Yes, I was almost killed by my cat. Yes, I will have him put down. Yes, I do need help putting on my undergarments," she told her friends on the phone, her neighbors on both sides, the local butcher and little elderly ladies at various bus shelters. Pity was expected.
Merceline reveled in the shocked expressions of strangers. She sat at bus stop number six, wearing bright red sunglasses and her sturdy green hat, staring straight ahead at the playground and entertained the thought that she may be a thrill seeker.
I've never jumped out of an airplane before, she thought with a kind of grim determination, and I suppose now I must, for this is what thrill seekers do.
She would never admit it, but imagining herself jump out of a plane made her terribly frightened.
Renton had survived his slip in the hallway with only a burn on his big toe from the telephone cord. He surprised everybody when he mentioned it, and he wore thongs on purpose, even on rainy days, just to have something interesting to say.
"Well! To be frank- ("Oh, that's your name is it?" he said to one stranger when the man he was telling suddenly beamed and exclaimed excitedly: "What a coincidence! Were your parents staying at the Marmone Hotel that year, as well? 1952?" Renton told him his name was not Frank, in a sour tone as he didn't appreciate being interrupted, and explained impatiently that his parents had never been to Hotel Marmone as they were not fans of Frank Sinatra and he, himself, had only heard one song) it's not just medical implications here, is it? It's the fact that Merceline doesn't know the sex of our cat, isn't it?"
People nodded, looking awkward.
Yes, thought Renton as he sipped a carton of iced chocolate, it is rather shameful not to notice whether your pet should be wearing a blue knitted vest or a collar with a dangling heart shaped pendant. He made a mental note to check out this situation.
Merceline was hanging her hat up on the heavy wooden coat-rack when Renton walked in the front door. She watched him bite into a thick-crusted meat pie. She pondered: would there be glass in that pie? If he was daring and thrilling?
Out loud she said: "Where have all the books gone? The ones in the upstairs room?"
Has she been scrolling through ebay looking for bowls with skulls printed on them and dark coloured blankets displaying girls in bikinis? Renton wondered while searching for hidden custard in his teeth with his tongue. He replied: "What, the room with all the wigs?"
Merceline tried to look down her nose at him in some form of disgust, but he was taller than her so she spent a bit of time tilting her head backwards and forwards without realizing what she was doing.
"Merceline, love," he said tenderly, looking at this thin, bright, rather odd lady before him, "let's have a picnic out in the park by that old house."
Merceline peered at him, much like a stern old lady would. "All we have is ham," she said, displeased, "and maybe some dried apricots."
"Well then," he smiled, "let's have a ham picnic out near that old house by the park."
She suddenly smiled and it lit up her entire face. "Let me get some glass."

Can there be more than two?

There seemed to be a hailstorm starting outside just as Merceline situated her lime green hat in the correct position upon her head.

"Here," Renton's arm appeared under her nose. He held out an umbrella and Merceline gave an unappreciative sniff.

"Well it's no good going out now! I'll get knocked unconscious by a falling hailstone!" She turned and walked into the living room, where a fire was roaring and a sleepy-looking cat lay curled up on a fat and fluffy rug.

Renton thought it was very unlikely that Merceline would get hit by the hailstorm on the account of her wearing such a sturdy hat. Merceline sat herself on one of the plump armchairs and called out: "Do we have any of that old brandy left? Renton? The brandy!" all at once without waiting for his answer.

Renton detached himself from the umbrella (brown with a splatter of artistically drawn water splashes making it look permanently wet) and went upstairs to run a bath. What bliss a bath could be. What heaven! Renton, on the odd occasion he took one, would fall into a sort of rigid trance and would lie for such a long time underneath all the bubbles and rubber sailboats, existing in peace, until he would suddenly remember something important he should be doing and leap out of the cool, grimy water looking like a bleached prune. 

"I said Renton!" came a shout from down below. 

Merceline stared about the room as if she'd suddenly appeared and hadn't the foggiest idea how she got there. She looked at the portrait hanging above the fireplace. She didn't know who the figure was, and she didn't care, but she liked it. Yes, she thought approvingly, I like that painting. She turned her gaze to the small square table with a set of sparkling crystal glasses that sat near the window. There were small squat round glasses and tall elegant wine glasses, skinny glasses that could hold a single flower and tiny shot glasses with a bubble pattern all the way around, all arranged neatly on a silver tray. Well, yes, I believe I like those, too, she thought, although this thought made her tired.

She then looked at the cat. No, she thought sharply as she watched it sleep, I don't believe in the slightest that I like that.

Renton came wandering in at this point. He was wearing a maroon bathrobe.

"We have to get rid of that cat," said Merceline. She pointed a long finger at the fluffy orange ball and sent it a look of pure disgust. "That cat has to go."

"What? Get rid of Terpentin?" Renton asked incredulously, "but love, we've had her almost four years."

"Now! It's attitudes like that..." she started, but stopped when Terpentin suddenly stretched, opened her eyes, climbed gracefully to her feet and walked off in the direction of her food bowl.

"No," said Merceline,"I don't like it."

Renton said, "I made sausages earlier on."

Merceline declared she was a vegetarian and Renton frowned, trying to work out exactly when she had claimed this.

"Yesterday before last," she offered unhelpfully, "just as I witnessed the horrible massacre of all those poor horses."

"That was Wild Stride, the cartoon. And anyway, there's no meat in the sausages because I had them made especially." He didn't cross his fingers behind his back when he said this and he felt odd. He had a feeling of rebelliousness. Why, maybe he should open his bathrobe and walk around, just for the fun of it. His trembling hands had just touched the fuzzy bathrobe cord when Merceline said: "Sausage-less sausages?" and they jumped back to his sides like guilty school children.

"Oh dang it all!" he grumbled. He undid the cord in one swift motion and said loudly, "I'm putting them on! They like to cook for seven minutes only." 

Merceline stood up. "Good lord, Renton, your bathrobe is open."

"Enjoy the show, lassie!" and he turned around just as Merceline reached out to close his robe. Her hands grasped air, she stepped awkwardly, stumbled over Terpentin, who meowed softly, and fell onto her left arm. 

There was a crunching sound.

Renton would have looked over to check if she was alright, but he had turned down the hall at high speed in his haste to aid his rumbling, naked stomach and skidded on a puddle. He slid a few feet before crashing into the phone table.

"Renton!" called Merceline, "I think-"

Oh, dang it, Renton thought as he stared at the growing stain on the ceiling, left the bath running again.

What is that weird smell?

"Look at that," said Jeremiah, "Just, fucking look at that."
Sierra swung around a streetlight pole and replied in a faraway voice while looking up at the stars, "If I were to join the circu-"
Jeremiah kissed her then and she didn't finish.
"Okay then," he said, staring down the street, "Let's go this way."
"I think I left my phone in the kitchen."
Jeremiah glanced at her hands. "Oh, well, Frances has it by now. What do you think about the harbour?"
Sierra bowed her head as she walked and wondered: what did she think about when she heard the word 'harbour'?
"Boats," she answered firmly, "and chips. Seagulls. Little pebbles."
"Nah that's the beach," Jeremiah dismissed her words easily, and Sierra said: "You're right," in her faraway voice that he knew too well.
"I'm wrong, actually, but thanks for giving it to me."
Jeremiah spent most mornings gazing into his pale reflection while combing his brown hair, and then he would throw the comb into his little rubbish bin, eat a bowl of nutrigrain, swap the lamp and ornament clock around in the living room before slipping seventy cents into his jacket pocket and leaving through the bathroom window.
This was his routine most mornings.
Sierra hummed songs that she heard on the tv the night previous while washing up the dishes, making sure to scrub the suds out of the sink and that all the knives, forks and spoons were facing the same way in the stand-up drainer. She then chose shoes without laces, opened the curtains at every second window, drank a can of blueberry mix breakfast drink standing next to the fridge then counted to twenty-four and six seconds before leaving the house.
They met up outside Marmy's Apple and Bookshop; Jeremiah tried not to mention anything about fire and Sierra avoided bringing up dogs, telephone boxes and baking soda.
"I think I'd like the circus," Sierra said, picking up her own thread of conversation, "and I think I'd like it because I like bright colours."
Jeremiah nodded.
"I also like candy."
"I'd like flying and doing those trapeze acts."
"Yes," Sierra said pleasantly, "flying is one of those magical moments in life where everything is better all at once."
"Like a breath of fresh air," agreed Jeremiah.
"Like leaping into heaven."
"Flying into heaven."
"Oh, quite right."
But, this morning, Sierra hadn't cleaned any dishes, hadn't opened the curtains or checked the cutlery. She had skipped the blueberry drink and counted to forty-four and three seconds before reluctantly reaching out to grab the door handle.
Jeremiah had glanced knowingly up and down the street while leaning against the bookshop window. He had a funny feeling in his stomach.
Sierra had come walking up with a hot-dog. She said, "The sauce is too rich but I enjoy the way it melts into the bread."
Jeremiah gave a tense smile, as if his cheeks hurt.
"Let's go to the skate park," Sierra suggested after swallowing, and they went.
In the hours that followed, Jeremiah had watched Sierra, not closely because that would encourage questions. He glanced at her from time to time, wondering what was different. Was it the way she concentrated on things, really looked at objects, as if it was the last time she would see them? Was it her bouncy blonde ponytail, or the red ribbon around her wrist?
He glanced, he wondered, but he didn't dare ask.
Then the sun went down and she had started talking about the circus.
"I know what you're doing," he said complacently, "You're planning on running away."
"Hmm," Sierra clutched her bag strap a little tighter and said, "where would I go?"
"The circus."
She laughed. Jeremiah clenched his jaw. He glanced at her and noticed her eyes, her carefully brushed hair, the red lines on her white skin, and he softened.
"You don't have to drink that blueberry crap every morning."
"What," Sierra started, in a rather icy tone for such a conversation, "would you know about blueberries?"
He shrugged, "They're expensive all year round."
"They're n-"
"Just tell me what's going on!" he yelled suddenly. He stopped walking and so did she. Sierra blinked at him, waiting. He thought she was probably biding time to think of a lie and this made hole in his chest grow bigger. "Sierra, I'm warning you-"
"Are you?" she said, feeling sort of detached from whatever moment they were having. She turned to walk but he grabbed her bag strap.
"Hey!"
"Don't walk away-"
"Fuck you!"
Jeremiah was stronger than her, and the bag shot out of her grip as he tugged her backwards, spilling the contents all over the dirty sidewalk. Gum wrappers, pens, hair clips and headphones, a notebook and a packet of tablets rolled around their feet.
Sierra bent down as if someone had fired a gunshot behind her, madly grabbing the items while Jeremiah stared at the orange and white tablet box. A pack of twenty-four. The kind she could never use because of one ingredient.
"It's for someone!" she said hurriedly as he swiped it up and stepped backwards, unable to take his eyes off the packet. "Wait! No!"
"So you weren't going to join the circus," he said quietly.
"Jere-" she stopped, not wanting to go on. She was suddenly so tired, so afraid, she felt like a shell. The real Sierra, the girl with substance and positive solutions to all problems, had drifted away without her realizing and left her with a body she had to somehow operate as normal.
Jeremiah turned around and walked to the railing. She stood frozen, watching. He threw the packet over as hard as he could, turned back and took her hand.
"Come on," he said.
They walked on; Jeremiah staring ahead at nothing much but with a grip so strong it was almost painful, Sierra focusing on the concrete slabs that made up the path while tears ran silently down her cheeks as she tried to make out odd bits of graffiti, her bag and all the contents splayed out behind them, forgotten.

How do I prepare for a metaphorical storm?

.Wet Leaf.

"Well! What extraordinary circumstances are these!' yelled Petra as she climbed rather ungracefully out of a lavender bush.

"Very! Indeed!" cried Alfred, who just happened to be the perfect height (although for what purpose, no one really knew) and wearing an acorn on top of his head. 

"Alfred! do come and let me examine you, at close range."

Alfred was afraid of trees, and as they hadn't planned to meet specifically in a forest, they were, actually, in the middle of a forest, surrounded by trees and flowers and other positively frightening foliage, it was certainly understandable that he felt a little on edge.

"Oh! Not still peering into every bark curl and chrysanthemum bush, are you?" Petra remarked in disdain as she brushed the front of her petticoat. 

"No! Certainly not!" but he stared around and gave a nervous twitch when a bird descended violently upon a nearby branch.

Petra sighed loudly. Alfred trembled. Petra looked over at the bird, coughed, then marched up to Alfred and smiled. "My, how tall you are now."

Alfred nodded, "Yes, well, height. Who can say how tall I am?"

"You're tall!" Petra commanded unnecessarily, for he was not. "And how very wet everything is." She looked around at the leaves and twigs, flower petals and fading crisp packets, all glistening in the weak sunshine as if covered by little diamonds. 

"The rain..." Alfred started to say in a very unenthusiastic voice, and then stopped because Petra wasn't listening. She was bending over a fat log and muttering a string of 'yes's' and 'I see's' and 'most interesting if I were the interested sort, which I'm not's'.

"Appealing, as it were, to have a dandy chat out here but I must take leave-"

"Alfie! Love, come here."

Petra also wore a hat. Her hat was purple and tall, with a wrap-around black ribbon and looked like it could withstand an armed attack. Alfred sighed and trudged over, watching as she bent with surprising flexibility. 

"Are you into Yoga?" Alfred enquired without care to her answer. He felt his legs start to tremble and wondered if he had chosen appropriate socks that morning to allow for leg-trembling. Ever so discretely, he pulled up his left trouser and glanced down. Orange.

"What are you doing?"

Alfred jumped. "Doing?"

"Stop playing with your pants and look at this," Petra held up a gigantic red leaf, about the size of her face, and twirled it around in her fingers. "What do you suppose this is?"

Alfred grimaced. If there was anything he hated more than trees, it was trick questions. Or questions that seemed like trick questions but turned out to be simple ones, leaving him with a red face that clashed terribly with his orange beard. "Uh, it's- it's a leaf?"

Petra rolled her eyes, "Of course it is! Does it not look like a leaf? Is it not red with soft edges and a thin stem that breaks when you twirl it too fast?" 

"Perhaps."

Alfred stared at a pink chip packet lying near Petra's heeled shoe and thought of his home. He lived in a large wooden house two streets out from the city. He had small apricot trees planted in pots and various-sized birdhouses hanging around the veranda. It was all very calm and serene, unlike his current predicament where the two trees nearest him were having a rude, whispered conversation with loud sniggering and overly passionate branch-pointing. 

"I protest!" Petra exclaimed suddenly. 

"Protest!" Alfred screamed, jolting out of his pleasant yet unsettling yen experience. "What ever about?"

"This!" she waved her hands around at the general area. "I would prefer tea, wouldn't you? We have so much to catch up on, what with having eight years between now and our last visit." She looked him up and down fondly. He felt like a piece of rare candy on display. Cinnamon, he thought with affection, I would like to be something involving cinnamon, and not butterscotch in the slightest.

"Do you do cinnamon, at all?" he asked and flinched as a branch came swooping dangerously close to his head in the breeze. "Oh! It's just all horrible!"

Petra's gaze hardened and she seemed to gather herself up, "You do bring out their violent urges, don't you?"

"I what?" 

"The trees. They seem to have unresolved anger issues whenever you're around. But, forget that!" she gathered up her skirts as if preparing to march onto a battleground, "Shall we have butterscotch fingers and reminisce?"

"Oh," Alfred drooped, as if she had sucked out all his air, and said: "Certainly. What happened to that leaf?" in an interested but obviously fake tone of voice. 

"Leaves, really! How on earth do you plan on achieving anything on a daily basis if you keep stopping to smell the roses?"

Alfred frowned at nothing in particular because he had started walking. 

"I daresay, Alfie, you have so much to learn on how to get on. I fear we shall need more time."

Her tone was absolute. They would, indeed, be spending enormous amounts of time on trifle matters, probably while eating an array of butterscotch-flavoured food around demanding, enraged foliage. 

~

Where do thoughts go?

The mouse and the model are laughing at us,

We'll risk it, we're desperate, for someone to trust.

~

'It most certainly is!'

And it was.

Of course, just because it was, didn't necessarily mean it was is.

I put the pen down, rub my head and turn to the boy next to me. "Does that make sense?"

He looks over at the paper. "Not in the slightest."

"Oh-"
"But! Actually, you've got is and was next to each other."

I frown. "Is that wrong?"

Before I can stop him, the boy with straight, straw-coloured hair has snatched up the sheet of paper and scrunched it into a  ball. "Haven't you ever noticed how much better you feel after chucking out the stuff that weighs you down?" he leans back on the chair legs, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

I honestly cannot say that I have ever felt that way Or that I have ever chucked anything out. "Hang on-"

"And!" he lets his chair fall forwards, "that sometimes, it's not what is getting you down, it's the other way round. It's what you're getting down about. See?"

His brown eyes sparkle as he smiles.

I ponder this. Can it be true? Maybe we have a choice?

"The opposite of 'you're' is not 'is'," I reply because the prospect of choice is too much at the moment. My head throbs harder at the endlessness created from such mass variety, and the continuous effort required to keep it up.

"Ha! What would you know?' he exclaims in a gleeful gesture of friendship, "You've got ink all over your fingers and no paper."

"You took  my paper!"

He leans closer, suddenly- so suddenly that he topples slightly but seems not to notice- with a cheeky grin, "Heard about Mara?"

I glance over at the new girl. Every day this week she had come with a red headband, a different pattern each day but always red. It went beautifully with her shiny brown hair.

"Yeah?" I said, eager to hear some headband-colour-type scandal, maybe involving a boy or a stint in prison.

"Yeah," he said, leaning closer, "she ate those mushrooms out in the garden, those red ones?"

I turn, sagging slightly like a deflated balloon at the mundane direction this conversation had taken, "oh..."

"Yeah? So when she ate them, you know when that was?"

"Yesterday?"

"Last year. And she was a thirty year old man called Gurtred."

Did you think this plan would work?

Meet me in the shadows...

Won't you come out
We could paint the town red
Kill a little time
You can sleep when you're dead

It isn't over yet...
      (Remember what I said)

Won't you come out
I've been waiting for you
Holding my breath
Til my body turned blue

       You've got everything to lose

How many nights do you stare at the moon?

.Eight Light-bulbs.

He sat in his rickety two-story house and he was happy. Planks of wood were nailed over the windows; the chimney bricks fell every few days, either through the roof or down into a pile near the front door, and everything smelled of age. The house was very old but he was very young.

I’m not that young, he scowls over my shoulder, and I tell him to quieten because this is my story.

So he was young. He sat in a room upstairs that was absolutely empty apart from eight light-bulbs attached to string and tied to the ceiling.

He was young, alone, sitting in an empty room and he was squinting. He’s the forgetful type (you are); he’d rather play with paper dolls than turn up at an eye appointment.

But he was not alone. No, someone found his weary house that smelled old and decided to let herself in. She was brave, or foolish. Sometimes bravery can seem like foolishness until victory, but whether she was brave and foolish or one or the other is beside the point. She opened that squeaky door and walked through the narrow, dark, eerie hallway, and she was quite ignorant of the faceless portraits hanging on the walls and the broken lamps scattered about.

She was brave but she was also impatient.

She was not impatient, he scowls again. I remind him what I once said about scowling and I tell him that he is quite right, of course. One cannot assume impatience isn’t fear. And fear can make you fast.

I watch as he reads and assesses, and then I ask him if I can continue. He nods noncommittally.

So she was fearfully impatient, glancing around and not seeing, wondering who could live in a place that echoes loudly and sighs despondently. She took the stairs quietly and crept past locked doors until she came to the room with the light. The room she had seen from outside in the darkness. She had counted the windows and now she was here, she was standing at the closed door but was not ready to open it.

He didn’t see the way her hands shook or hear her breath hitch in her throat. He was too busy sitting in his empty room staring at the light in his hands.

Light is power, he says from behind me. I smile because I know he wants my opinion so he can argue his point, and I continue.

So. She stood in the faded hallway with peeling flowered wallpaper and she took a deep breath to calm herself. Then she opened the door.

He turned around slowly, surprised at the spontaneous intrusion and stared at the girl who had just walked into the room with eight light bulbs.

“Oh,” she said when her eyes fell upon the lights hanging from the ceiling.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She looked down at him, crunched up on the floor in summer clothes while the snow fell outside. “You’re the boy with too many light bulbs.”

He watched her as she stood silent and still. He liked her sandals but couldn’t imagine her wearing anything else. “You’re the girl who lost her way.”

I could, he says, I imagined her wearing those lace-up shoes with flowers on the toes.

“You’ve got so many,” she remarked. Now that she had entered the room and found the light, she wasn’t afraid. She walked over to the nearest one and reached up, as high as she could, and because the ceiling was low she was able to touch it with her fingertips.

It went out.

“Oh!” she cried and jerked her hand away.

He leapt up, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to touch things that aren’t yours?!”

“I’m sorry!”

He stared at the dark globe and the shadows it cast and he felt something go out inside himself. He felt empty and he had never felt empty before.

“Get out! Go on! Who told you to come in anyway?”

She looked down at the worn floorboards and said, “It’s cold out there.”

“Yeah? Well you’re not welcome in here!”

She felt a sudden rise of anger at this stranger for telling her where could find welcome. Certainly, if the boy didn’t want her company then the walls and doorknobs would?

“Why shouldn’t I be allowed in here?” she retorted angrily and waved her hands about.

I found her hand gestures tiresome, he says and I tell him that the small, irksome habits of others are the things we miss the most.

Her hand grazed another light-bulb, as she had moved a few paces while talking, and it, too, went out.

“Stop!” he called, his eyes wide and frantic. “Don’t move!”

She stopped moving and caught sight of his left hand clutching something so hard that his knuckles were turning white. “You have a light yourself. Why are you so worried about these ones?”

He glared at the clumsy, impulsive girl who took up too much space. “There’s no room for you in here. Go!”

She laughed at his words, a giddy feeling bubbling up inside her as if she were a can of freshly opened soda, and she said, “There’s nothing but room in here.”

“It’s full!” he yelled. The emptiness he had felt before seemed to double as another set of shadows settled into the room. “Go away!”

“Stop telling me what to do! Didn’t your mother ever teach you to share?”

And this foolishly brave girl reached up to the third light, she pushed up on her toes as far as she could and stretched her arm as high as it would go, and she snatched it free from the string.

“STOP IT!”

Nearly half of the room was now bathed in blankets of black and he felt as though he had suddenly started falling.

I thought I would never breathe again, he says quietly. I tell him I remember and continue.

She looked down at her own dark light bulb, shook it carefully at first, glancing up at his as she did so, and when that didn’t bring it to life she brandished it so hard he thought it would break.

“Why did mine go out when yours is still alight?” she demanded.

He took a deep, trembling breath and said, “Leave n-” but he didn’t finish.

She had reached up once more while he had been steading his nerves and thinking up reasonable requests. This impatient yet courageous girl had reached up, as high as she could just like the last time, and yanked down the fourth light.

“NO!”

He lunged at her as the fourth bulb went out in her hands.

“Why does it keep doing that?!” she cried in frustration, oblivious, yet again, to her surroundings.

It is hard to see in a room that is only half lit up and even harder for someone who spends all of his time never seeing anything for how it really is. But fear made him strong.

She looked up to see his furious, blurry figure and she, too, felt fear. Fear pushed all the sensible thoughts out of her head like a dripping tap until the only thing that made sense for her to do was the one thing she shouldn’t.

She threw the two broken light-bulbs up into the air.

I pause and wait for him to comment. Surely there is something important to add at this crucial part of the story?

There is nothing, he says. I recognise the undertone in his voice and continue without a word.

So she had flung the two bulbs away in regrettable haste and they had sailed up into the light. He crashed into her as the two dark bulbs hit two light bulbs and there was a monstrous smashing noise that had never been heard before in such a dispirited and sensitive house.

They fell and glass rained down around them like the falling snow.

“WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING EVERYTHING!?” he shouted.

“Get off!” she screamed.

His free hand grabbed at her cardigan in rage and she, in turn, tried desperately to push him off with both of hers. Anger, like fear, enhances strength and he was overflowing. His lonely, sad, bright world had been safe without rash irresponsibility, her rash irresponsibility.

“WHY?!” he yelled with so much force that his throat ached, “WHY?!”

He glared, wide-eyed, down at her scrunched-up face streaming with tears, and he quite forgot himself. She stared transfixed up at all his fury and she watched as his left hand suddenly moved. His arm rose up, seemingly without instruction, while his right clenched and clawed, and the brightest light she had ever seen flew out of his grasp.

Shadows descended around them. She felt his other hand join its brother around her neck but she was waiting. Her eyes followed the glowing trail as it flew up to meet the others.

I would have killed her, he tells me.

And so he would have, had the last two light-bulbs not shattered upon impact and plunged them into darkness.