Imprints

Liam Foster
A rumbling sound in the distance snaps you back into the present. They would be here
soon. You are standing on a beach peering into the thick fog that obscures the water in front of
you, searching for the source of the unnerving noise. You glance away as you realize that your
seeing it first would not change the truth. Your eyes fall upon your brother, lying broken and
bleeding in your arms. Averting your gaze, you look down at your cold feet and the earth
beneath them; the sand looks ghastly, as does everything else. In the moonlight, it is as if the
colour has been sucked from the island along with its wealth.
The rumbling sound grows nearer. You wouldnt be standing on this damned beach if it
wasnt for the other sound. The sounds of a beating gone awry. You can hear the screaming.
There is brief spattering of gunfire inland. Then silence.
____________________________________________________________________________
The date was July 6th, 1975. You sat on the floor and stared into the sorry excuse for a
television. The news was on, but only intermittently. The anchor would flash into and out of the
static that frequently engulfed the picture. Annoying. The sound was of similar quality. Somehow
you were able to pick up and out a few details.
Mom! you yelled, Come look!
One second, she replied. Quite a while after a second had passed she appeared
coming down the stairs with your 11 year old brother; you were two years his superior.
What is it? she asked.
Well, you missed the broadca-
What happened? she interrupted with a stern tone.
Yeah, what happened? your brother piled on with his squeaky voice.
Were not in France anymore, you replied in an attempt to make a Wizard of Oz
reference, But Mayotte still is.
What do you mean? your mom asked. She knew, asking only for confirmation. Anjouan
and the surrounding islands, except Mayotte, had become their own sovereignty.
The evening after the television broadcast there was celebration. You sat on the stairs
watching people dance upon the dilapidated tiles that made up the floor.
"Mayotte is foolish for staying French."
The remark only just slid past the blaring festivities. You agreed with the words that were
said although you did not know where they originated. Probably one of your fathers friends. You
slinked upstairs to avoid the brunt of the noise. You tried to be quiet on the creaky stairs but
knew that your actions were of no consequence; they were built nearly as poorly as the tile
downstairs.
Besides, the noise of the riot was loud enough to mask any sound you may have made.
You knew it wasnt a real riot, but it was loud enough to be one. As you sat upstairs on your bed
you saw people in the streets. Strange, that such a massive wave of celebration could have
been brought on by a vote whose outcome was based off of only a handful of people everyone
agreed were powerful. Has Anjouan done the wrong thing? You looked out the window once

more before slipping unconscious, although it was a wonder you could do so in spite of the siren
of a gathering that transpired downstairs. They cant be wrong, not all of them...
Your home islands looked the same 20 years later, although the view became foggy as
your breath obscured the view out the plastic oval of a window that sat in front of you. The
islands presented themselves as you drew nearer, four emerald gems erupting from the
cerulean Mozambique Channel. You could see your house; well, not really. You could see where
it was, below a small silver tower that would not be seen unless one was looking for it.
Tens of minutes later, tires screeched and as you were pressed against your seatbelt,
relief washed over you; Anjouan didnt have a spotless aviation record and you were tired from
the trip home. You stepped out of the plane and saw a changed place. The sound of gunfire
woke you from your daze. A family behind you pushed past and ran for the airport and its
relative security. One could cut the tension with a knife, almost like the politics had cut the
islands. You looked at a television screen, a new one, and remembered that day, two decades
ago, picking out details from the defective finicky box at your house. It was the same news
station that you had watched at your house in your childhood. News was all your parents
watched and all that had changed was the leader of the on-screen inquisition.
"The Anjouan People's Movement has secured the island." Despite the the fact that the
anchors voice sounded as if it was being channeled through a childs microphone, the people
around you were cheering. And you were too.
Wrong shade, wrong size, mine doesnt have wheels
Aha, you said to yourself. You had seen the tag that denoted the package as yours.
You heaved your luggage off of the carousel and wheeled it away and out of the airport, cursing
the heavy textbooks you had to lug around; these books, however, were the gateway to a new
life. When the doors opened you were greeted by a bright and friendly sun. You heard a noise
and looked around for its source. It sounded as if someone was whistling. This someone turned
out to be you. Your suitcase felt light as you bounced down your street. And there it was,
perched on the towered hill; your house was in shambles, almost as if someone had dumped a
vat of some sort of aging agent onto it in order to remove the paint and it hadnt quite worked so
the stubborn colouring had only become flaky. The building leaned to one side and a smile crept
across your face; it was just how you remembered it. The front door was firmly locked. Your
shoes squished into the shallow mud that occupied the space around your house as you walked
around back. The back door opened loudly, with a creak reminiscent of drilling a hole through
steel tube with a dull bit.
Whered that light switch run off to? You flipped four of the five on the panel you had
found. The last one finally worked.
Hello? Anybody home? you yelled into the newly viewable space. There was no reply.
Your brother must be at work. You tiptoed upstairs, skipping the loud one, and plopped yourself
onto your bed. Your room was still messy from the last time you visited, with various electrical
components strewn about. Nothing had moved in the two decades you were gone. The last time
your brother relocated your supplies a capacitor discharged and gave him quite a shock; ever

since the incident, he was afraid to move anything without you there. You opened the book on
your bed and thumbed through the numerous neon tabs you had placed inside. You came upon
the 219th page, your favorite page, and read it for what seemed like the upteenth time. The top
read The Essentials of Amature Radio Transmission. Page 219 turned to page 220 turned to
221
Boo, your brother chirped into your ear.
Whah It was as if you had jumped a foot in the air; you hadnt realized you were
sleeping. You slowly peeled a page of the book off of your face so you didnt tear it. Your
brothers grin, although missing a few teeth, was a sight for sore eyes, as was the old plastic
radio sitting on the nightstand.
You and your brother had found the radio inside of a neighbors rubbish bin in a
dysfunctional state and did the best you could attempting to make it function. After many late
nights it worked about as well as your television did when it broadcast independence for the first
time. But it worked. You tuned in to your favorite station and listened. You translated the show to
your brother, who didnt speak English, talking about how the stomach could be thought of as
the outside of your body and how the shape of the human body is actually a toroid. The podcast
ended and you flipped the switch and the radio went quiet.
Shall we? you asked, and handed your brother a box that was concealed behind you
back. He popped the latches that held the toolkit together and his eyes almost did the same
thing, but out of his head. Inside was an old soldering iron you had found in one of the garbage
bins outside of your university, a roll of solder, and an array of assorted components. The sun
had relinquished its glowing grasp on the enlightened and let them sink into darkness. You
closed the box and looked at your brother; you both nodded and crept down the stairs, careful to
avoid the creaky one. Weather had moved in since the sun went down and the low clouds
reflected the orange glow of the insolvent city below. You were carrying the book and radio; your
brother carried the toolkit as well as some unidentified thing under his jacket. Your feet
squelched into the muck and it seemed that for each pair of steps taken forward, another was
taken back as your foot slid downwards. The tower looked to recede before it advanced, but it
finally presented itself before you, although there was a wire barrier between you and your
objective.
What do you think? Your brothers voice did not betray any sense of doubt. Before you
could reply, your brother put his toolkit down and climbed up and over the fence. He held his
hands outstretched to receive the toolkit from above. You, however, had other plans and seized
the toolkit while opening a gate just to the right your brothers path of ascent. A flash of lightning
illuminated the caged-in compound in which you stood, revealing an abandoned radio mast
towering over a small concrete compound.
After you, your brother said as he held open the door to the concrete box. As you
walked in, you outstretched your arms; you could almost touch the walls. Most of the room was
taken up by a large table in the center of the space. There was a cord that dangled out of the
wall to the left of a door that you assumed provided access to the cords source. You stepped
inside and got to work, opening the kit, plugging in the iron, and opening the book. To the 219th
page. Your brother, meanwhile, produced what he had been working on while you were away;

You saw a microphone, cord, and recorder come from the inside of his jacket. Your hands, like
spiders, carefully and delicately grasped the iron and components, while your eyes darted back
and forth from your creation the book and back again.
Done, you said. Your brother handed you the recorder and you plugged your creation
into it.
Cool, your brothers muffled voice replied. You looked toward the door, now ajar, that
your brothers voice emanated from behind and the limp cord that hung to its left.
Is it the right one? you asked through the wall.
I believe so, he answered. You stood up from the crouched position that you had
unknowingly assumed while working, taking your time to allow your knees awaken, and waddled
over to where the cord was hanging.
Click. The plug that terminated the cord fit into your contraption like a car into a
particularly tight parking space.
He turned on the radio as you hit the play button. His voice came from the old television
of a radio, but it came. You looked at the elbow, but the high five left much to be desired. This
was made up for by the grins. Lightning flashed outside and the rain smashed into the tin roof
with a metallic roar, a roar that almost drowned out the sound of the first broadcast.
Like life, going down the hill was much easier than going up. The backdoor opened with its
familiar creak and you climbed the stairs, avoiding the creaky one.
Good morning, your brother joked as you crashed onto your bed. You could already
see the first rays of dawn igniting the forested peaks above as sleep came and the peaks
disappeared from view.
Sploingb, Sploingb. You awoke to the sight and sound of your brother repeatedly using
your bed to defy gravity.
Mughmenmughrugnmleguf, you mumbled, Goawaeeyy.
But idea! Your brother wasnt going to let you sleep, but you werent going to make it
easy for him.
Radio station!
Ok. But I sleep now. You smashed a pillow over your head to try to limit the sensory
input of your sibling. When is he going to leave? Why light? Mrrrrr.
Come on. he said, Im not leaving. Ever. Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala-
Okay, okay, you said, I am getting up. You did so, although at a painfully slow pace.
The view out the window revealed a changed landscape. The sun was beating down from
straight above; there were no shadows. You avoided the creaky stair as you descended and sat
down to eat. Was it breakfast or lunch? You couldnt decide. Breakfast tasted better, so you
went with that.
Before you could pour your cereal into a bowl your brother grabbed your arm and
dragged you up the hill to the tower as you dug in your heels.
Aw, you complained as you looked down at your stained and muddied shirt, a white
shirt, or at least what was left of one, I like this shirt. As you stood up and walked inside the
concrete box you saw what your brother had done. The microphone had been attached to your
contraption. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your brother flip a switch.

Try it out. He was almost vibrating with anticipation. You seized the microphone with
your left hand.
Testing, 123. Testing, testing. That was when you heard the sound. You despised and
enjoyed it at the same time; it was your voice warbling through the radio.
Shall we? Your brother slid you a script and you realized what he was up to.
Are you sure about this? you replied, almost confidently.
Nope, he responded.
Perfect.
You grabbed the microphone and into it you pronounced, Hello, Anjouan. Hello, world.
A smile crept across your face as the radio repeated your statement like a broken parrot.
Over the next couple of months your station played everything it could get its hands on.
Music, jokes, interviews; everything was fair game. The trip up the hill became bearable,
enjoyable, even. You were able to, if only intermittently, eat your breakfast.
One day while on the air your brother asked, Did you hear the news?
I would sure hope so, you joked, Isnt that our job?
Well, the new president guy isnt a president anymore, he replied.
Again? There are more coups in this government then there are housing all of the
birds! You both laughed.
Well, who is it this time? you continued after you had composed yourself.
It is this Baker guy. I think. I could have his name wrong, but it is something like that.
Why do we have a cook leading the country? you joked.
Chopping veggies and policies rhyme, your brother replied, Because that helps.
You know, he might be kind of gouda, you jested.
These jokes are getting cheesey, your brother pointed out.
Unfortunately we will have to stop here in fear of injuring someone with a lactose
intolerancy. Have a wonderful evening. Your brother switched off the recorder and you hit the
lights, plunging the room into darkness.
Ow! you heard, Why is that stupid table there?
You looked outside and around into the sunset, seeing the dark line of Earths shadow in
the sky approaching from the east as it slowly rose and terminated the colours of the rainbow of
the sky, leaving only darkness behind. Your brother was standing next to you, having closed the
concrete structure you fondly called the Box on the Rocks.
Im bored, your brother complained.
Ok, you replied.
Bye he said, five minutes later as he stood up.
Ill catch up later, you yelled after him as he descended into darkness of the land below
that had been abandoned by the setting sun. You sat down on the dirt path you and your brother
had created, shifting your weight off of an uncomfortable rock that you were too lazy to remove
from underneath you. Silence descended on the island along with darkness. The suns disk,
warped along the horizon, slowly disappeared. You sat for a while, too comfortable to get up
although you knew you should have been going. A quiet thump-thwacking noise rose from
below, probably a flat tire. You gave it no second thought.

Urrrr, you grunted as you stood up. You looked up at the moon, now starting to bathe
the surrounding landscape with its pale light. You stumbled down the hill with sore knees. There
was a truck outside the front of your house.
You opened the back door and tripped on the body. Please be asleep, please be asleep.
You shook your brother violently. Your hands were wet and sticky with a warm, viscous fluid.
With a shock you realized it was his blood. Sitting on your knees, you wanted to scream but you
couldnt; your voice was gone. You cried instead. Your hand stumbled across a scrap of paper.
You held it up in order to try to read it by the moonlight, careful to not smear blood onto it and
render it illegible. It read, My name is Bacar and respect is a virtue. This lesson should teach
you some. Salty tears were mixing into your brothers wounds.
Way to throw salt on the wound. Go cry somewhere else, your brother muttered.
Youre al- he winced as his hand shut your mouth.
Dont yell or we wont be. He coughed blood.
You need to go to a hospital, you said.
No. They will kill us.
Why? You were stunned.
The nurses have been told to reject people with signs of a beating, your brother
replied.
You are lying. How do you know? You couldnt believe what your brother had said. Do
you want to be dead?
One of my assailants told it to me. He told everyone to stop beating before I was dead
so it would be a slower death. I was a dead man, he said, because if I went to a hospital they
would reject me.
Assailants, you said, You vocabulary gets better when you die. You both chuckled,
your brother painfully. Hope was lost. You knew that with the wounds your brother had sustained
that he wouldnt last the night. The tears that had briefly abated started to flow freely again with
renewed vigor. You crumpled the note into your hand. It didnt crumple how you wanted it to, so
you looked at it again. You flipped it over and noticed it was written on a ferry schedule. One left
for Mayotte in an hour.
Idea, you said, holding back tears as you remembered your bother trying to wake you
up; this was a different kind of sleep.
It will be here in an hour and we have to hurry, you whispered with urgency, if that was
possible, into your brothers ear. You set a timer on your watch. 58:47 58:46 58:45...
What doe-?
I will tell you later, you interrupted, Just dont scream when I pick you up.
If I die before you tell me I will kill you, he joked.
What have you been eating? you grunted.
Recently, mostly blood. My bloo- He bit his tongue in order to hold back the screams of
pain as streams of pain flowed through him. His being in shock must have been wearing off. He
felt light. Your adrenaline must have been kicking in. Looking back you saw the toolkit on the
floor. Your brothers toolkit. The tools were scattered down the hall.
I will get you a new one later, you muttered into his ear. There was no reply. You could
feel him slipping away. You sprinted down the street, amazed that you could move so fast
carrying such a load. The truck started its engine. Damn it. You had forgotten about the truck.

You ran faster, which was amazing. You didnt think you could. A smile crept across your face.
You could see the beach through a gap in the trees at the end of the street. Your expression
was quickly erased as you looked behind you. You turned back around and hit the ground. Your
brother stirred. He was still alive.
Goodbye, you said to him. He didnt respond. You closed your eyes as you waited and
wondered whether they would run you over with the truck or put a bullet through your head. The
truck grew louder and the headlights brighter. Everything turned red as the lights smashed
through your eyelids. You were dead. You opened your eyes and looked around. There was a
new shade of red; the trucks taillights were quickly receding into the distance and disappeared
around a corner.
You stood up and grimaced as you felt your new lack of skin. Death might have been
easier and you certainly hoped it would be more comfortable. You crashed through the trees at
the end of the road and found yourself standing on a beach. You and your brother were alone.
A rumbling sound in the distance snaps you back into the present. They would be here
soon. You are standing on a beach peering into the thick fog that obscures the water in front of
you, searching for the source of the unnerving noise. You glance away as you realize that your
seeing it first would not change the truth. Your eyes fall upon your brother, lying broken and
bleeding in your arms. Averting your gaze, you look down at your cold feet and the earth
beneath them; the sand looks ghastly, as does everything else. In the moonlight, it is as if the
colour has been sucked from the island along with its wealth.
The rumbling sound grows nearer. You wouldnt be standing on this damned beach if it
wasnt for the other sound. The sounds of a beating gone awry. You can hear the screaming.
There is brief spattering of gunfire inland. Then silence.

The source of the rumbling sound presents itself in front of you and you step on, your foot
vacating itself from the gritty sand.

All that remains are footprints.