His Tsantsas

Placing his feet upon the desk his eyes swept over all his treasures, two rather large bookcases of Tasmanian oak, a disorderly parade of volumes and journals, some stacked precariously, threatening to slide should the mood strike them, two old friends from the days of war, hump pilots they were known as and some, the ones who did make it back in one piece, had smuggled one or two, they did not occupy much luggage space, he'd wondered how they had, with jungle tools, been able to reduce the skull itself to something of a miniature, skin did not hang, in fact was taut, of acorn brown, small eyes that seemed alive beneath closed lids and would observe the world, of that he was quite sure. On Christmas Day he felt the force, today would be the time to say his quick and indignant good byes, he nodded to the heads expecting nothing in return, and as he passed the pair just stared with open eyes.