How odd.

It had been lower yesterday, and the day before. But today the bedroom door was just a little further up than normal. Simon Aitken didn't realise there was a problem until half-way down the hall.

There was something wrong with the toilet door too. Indeed, the toilet itself reached further up his legs than before; his knees connected with the seat as he flushed.

It wasn't until showering that he noticed the problem. He looked down and saw his feet were missing.

His legs reached towards the shower floor as they always had done. But suddenly, at the ankles, his body stopped. There was no more. No in-growing toenail, no odd-shaped little toe, no athlete's foot.

Very strange.

They had been there yesterday. Simon concentrated, and his mind instructed him that not only were his feet there, but they were wet. Hot shower water was flowing down his legs, draining between his toes and pooling around his instep.

But looking down, his feet simply were not there.

Bracing himself against the side of the shower, he lifted his right leg. His right foot appeared, although not instantly. The process was gradual, as if it were coming through the floor of the shower.

Simon patted the soft, wet sole, and felt a familiar tickle. His foot felt normal; both to his fingers and to the curved pads of thick skin which had lived beneath his ankles for all of his life.

He put his foot down, and felt it touch on the floor of the shower. Yet it was again his ankles which appeared the last outpost in the territory of his body.

Simon lifted his left leg, and similarly his left foot came to view. It, too, seemed present up to the point where he put his foot down. Then it, too, disappeared.

He lifted his right foot into view again, and placed it on the floor of the shower. He felt nothing there. He put weight on the foot, and it disappeared through the floor.

Simon left the shower and dried himself. While dressing, he experimented as he put on his socks and shoes. Though both would sit happily on the bedroom floor by themselves, once his feet filled their souls; they too would vanish beneath the carpet.

Simon considered calling Mr Anderson at the office and claiming he was sick. But his test of illness had always been whether or not he was vomiting. He felt all right. Partially present feet would pose no great challenge to his work ethic.

But he telephoned the doctor and made an appointment for early in the afternoon, just in case. After putting on his suit coat, straightening his tie, shaving, and downing a bowl of Weetbix, Simon left the house.

Walking down the steps, his feet still fell frictionlessly through to the ankle. Striding down the street, cars slowed as their drivers saw him. People pointed unashamedly towards his legs.

Simon was confused. Surely this situation was not his fault; yet attention followed him like a loyal dog. Nothing was said, yet eyes remained fixed on his feet as they melted ankle-deep in the sidewalk. Was he sick? Was he cursed?

Stepping into the Anderson's Consulting Ltd offices, Simon hoped the curiosity would end. His problem had made him late.

"So glad you could join us," said Mr. Anderson, his bony face peering from the office door and sharp, whiny voice slicing the air.

"You are late. You have been warned before, and you are now unemployed."

Mr. Anderson sniffed, and glared at Simon. He looked him up and down, his eyes holding momentarily as they reached the lower end of his trousers. He seemed unfazed.

"Collect any belongings and be gone in 30 minutes."

"But..."

The door shut on Simon's objection. He walked to his desk, picked up his pot plant and left. The pot plant was cannabis. Simon grew it on his desk in silent protest for the meaninglessness of his job. It symbolised an element of danger he craved, but never managed to reach.

He walked home, feet seemingly lost in a world of their own. They were the more important concern. Perhaps he had but a virus, and would recover in a couple of days. Though he could not recall any diseases which involved parts of the body disappearing. Dropping off, perhaps, but never actually, almost entirely disappearing.

At home he took aspirin, hoping it might help.

Some time later he sat in the doctor's waiting room, one foot crossed the knee, the other nestled below the carpet.

Dr. Hender was eccentric but capable. Also affordable; apparently reflecting that many patients could not so easily cope with his eccentricities.

Some 15 minutes after the scheduled appointment, the doctor beckoned Simon into his presence.

Simon was invited to sit, then received a hard stare. The doctor's black hair was contrasted by a grey face and brown eyes. A tired spirit hid beneath the torrid flow of wrinkles which crashed over his cheekbones like ocean waves.

Simon said nothing, and after an extended silence the doctor began the conversation.

"Well, what seems to be the problem?"

"My feet have disappeared."

The stare intensified.

"Explain."

"Well, when I got up this morning, I found my feet would no longer touch the ground. They sort of go through the ground. See?"

The doctor leaned forward and noted Simon's ankles settled on the floor.

"Hm. No feet, eh?"

"Well, they're technically still there." Simon lifted his right foot to demonstrate.

"Do they smell?" Dr Hender asked.

Simon bent over and took a whiff. There was no noticeable odour.

"No."

"Well, what's your problem, then?"

Simon looked at the doctor. It was a hard stare, though not nearly as concrete as those of the doctor.

"They keep disappearing through the ground. That's what the problem is."

Dr Hender pretended to mull this over, while rubbing the top of a human skull he kept on his desk. Over the years it had developed a small circular white patch where the doctor had rubbed it while pretending to think.

"My advice," he said, "is to go home, relax, and put your feet up."

Simon's distrustful stare intensified.

"Is that some sort of joke?"

"Not at all. It's likely some psychosomatic reaction to rock and roll music. I told them in the '50s it was no good, that it would rot the brain, that it caused homosexuality. But oh-no, wouldn't listen to me, would they?" The doctor was touched by hysteria.

"Just kept listening to that damned Bill Haley and his Comets, didn't they? And did you really think John Lennon didn't know Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds initialled LSD? Are you telling me Strawberry Fields isn't written for someone on a heroin trip? Please! Give me credit!

"David Bowie? Worst of the lot. Sang about gnomes then wore dresses and tried to upset the American space missions by singing about a dead astronaut who turned out to be just another junkie anyway! And don't even get me started on the sexual bents of Freddy Mercury and Elton John..."

The doctor stopped, caught a breath, and adjusted his tone.

"Just you go on home, put on some good classical music - I recommend Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No.1 - and put all this disappearing body parts business behind you."

"But Dr Hender-"

"No need to thank me. Now get out, I have sick people to deal with."

The doctor pressed a button on his intercom: "Mildew, cancel my three-o'clock, I'm going surfing."

With that he pushed Simon out of the room and hurried out the back door.

Tchaikovsky's concerto did little for Simon's predicament. For the record, neither did Megadeth's Youthanasia or even the magically insane qualities of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon.

Simon lay on his sofa, heels melting into the cushions. He watched television, took aspirin, washed it down with Steinlager, and prayed an atheist's prayer that tomorrow everything would be well.

He fell asleep and restlessly dreamed of large green frogs and sinking ships.

When morning came, Simon woke but did not move for some time, his back stiff from the lumpy, too-short couch. Gathering his thoughts, he tried to put the previous day's occurrences into some sort of perspective; to arrange them in some sane way.

Too difficult. He consoled himself that, as he had just been sleeping, it could all have been a dream.

The only reality to happily invade the unconscious state was a full bladder. A merciless inner-nagging, verging on pain. No matter how many times he dreamed of relieving himself, the feeling returned with renewed vigour.

So Simon rose from the couch with the intention of tending to "business". The unease felt in losing his feet the previous morning returned. Simon closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and looked down.

His knees were gone too.

He looked behind, but was not kneeling. Whereas yesterday the outer perimeter of his body had been his ankles, it had become the lower thigh. Knees were not where knees should be.

Again a strange feeling of normality; as if his feet were on carpet. He felt cool balls of processed, machine-woven wool scrunch between his toes.

But his lower legs were not there in any visual, physical sense.

When he walked, his knees passed through the floorboards.

His vital organ could no longer reach over the toilet bowl, so he was forced to perform his ablutions in a plastic bucket. The higher shelves of the refrigerator were out of reach, so breakfast consisted of week old tomatoes and brown lettuce.

They were the refrigerator's token vegetables, destined to rot until their smell demanded them a decent funeral.

Simon stretched to turn the shower on, then could not reach the soap. He made do with shampoo, and thanked his genes for the hairy chest.

Later, he telephoned the doctor's office. By some twist of fate, the receptionist put him through to the doctor's telephone.

"Hender," the voice crackled impatiently.

"Doctor, It's Simon Aitken."

"Who?"

"Simon Aitken. I was in yesterday. My feet disappeared."

"Yes."

"Well, this morning my knees are gone too."

"If you haven't heard from them in 48 hours, call the police and fill out a missing person's report."

"But you don't understand. They're still here."

"Then stop wasting my time," said the doctor sharply. He terminated the conversation with no small amount of force.

Simon stared, stunned, at the telephone, then let the receiver drop to the floor, where it stayed - apparently obeying physical laws Simon's body was flagrantly disregarding.

Simon waded (for this was how he perceived his current mode of movement) to the lounge. He sat in/on the sofa, and whiled away the morning listening to Tchaikovsky, hoping the doctor had been right.

He dared not leave the house, fearing being seen. It was one thing to be different, but quite another to be seen to be different.

However, the afternoon sun lured him to the back yard, his walkman tuned to a classical station. He sat on a plastic seat, reading from "The Living Bible", in hope of a quick-fix solution (he had heard somewhere that all people turn to religion in times of crisis).

He was disturbed to find a verse in Proverbs, chapter 10: "A good man has firm footing, but a crook will slip and fall".

Simon pondered this.

Obviously he was not the good man he had always thought. The bible was open to interpretation, he reminded himself, though it seemed he was "slipping" through the floorboards and very slowly "falling" through the earth.

Simon lifted his eyes to the sky, picking an indistinct spot where he thought an omnipotent being should be, and shouted: "I am not a crook!"

And if, indeed, omnipotence felt the cry deserved a reply, it might have been: "I heard much the same from Richard Nixon".

Simon attempted to make his dinner. He tried to climb on a chair to reach the stove, but his lower legs passed through the cushioned seat, he lost balance and fell.

In the background the Chinese Dance from the Nutcracker Suite gave the scene a surreal quality.

Simon attempted to mount the chair again, but toppled to the floor. His brain and body were sending conflicting messages and his inner-ear, which was controlling his balance, simply gave up.

Lying on old linoleum, his breath forming a patch of condensation around his cheek, Simon's whole situation impacted. So suddenly handicapped. Without reason or explanation. Not even the respectability of a drunk driver to take the blame.

An emptiness within his chest crept through his body and chilled. Red-rimmed eyes were excessively irrigated. Simon cried silently, bathing in a calm pool of hopelessness, washing with the soap of despair, using a good dob of the shampoo of "feeling a bit stupid, actually", and slapping on the deodorant of frustration.

Then his resolve to deal with the situation returned. He sent out for pizza, slipping money under the door when the delivery arrived. He picked out the anchovies and onion, ate two slices and went to bed.

He slept restlessly.

The sun was lured from its lair, as it was every day; leaving behind a disturbed and psychedelic trail of time the world was then forced to use both completely and constructively.

An intense red-blackness on the inside of the eyelids brought Simon to reality once more.

With eyes closed, daring not to look, he climbed off the bed. His feet felt like they touched the carpet.

He sent up a quick prayer to God. Then added one to Buddah, another to Zeus, and finally a quick one to Eric Clapton (just in case).

Unfortunately, if any such divine beings existed, they were not about to interrupt their bridge game to listen to Simon's prayers.

Hesitantly, he opened his eyes. And wept.

It was some time before he began to comprehend the situation; a little more than waist deep in floorboards.

"I'm sinking," he said to himself. "I'm sinking, you bastards!" he shouted at omnipotence. But nobody there could even be bothered flicking a lightning bolt in his direction.

"You stupid, stuck-up, holier than thou, bastards! Why are you doing this to me? What have I ever done to you?

"Can't wait until I'm dead to send me to Hell?"

Simon let out a shout of frustration, found he could no longer kick anything, so punched a hole in the wall instead. He broke into a fresh gale of hopeless sobbing discovering he could no longer reach the door handle.

A fiery tide of anger and disbelief burned as it washed the shores of his soul.

"You bastards." Simon closed his eyes and willed himself dead. "You bloody, arrogant bastards. Who gave you permission to play God? I want to see your damned qualifications."

His new situation created other problems, too. With no material posterior, he could no longer sit down. If he tried to take weight off both feet at once, a sharp pain jabbed his lower back. And there was no longer the tugging need to urinate; not that the appropriate equipment was still in view.

One problem at a time, he told himself.

Using a coat hanger from the bottom of his wardrobe, Simon managed to open the door. With help from the coat hanger he managed to get his telephone receiver off its hook on the wall.

He telephoned his sister.

He counted impatient electronic rings. Finally there was an answer.

"Hello?"

"Christine?"

"Simon."

"Christine..."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm disappearing, 'Tine. I'm slowly sinking through the ground. It's swallowing me up. It's like I'm being buried alive."

"What?"

"I don't know what's happening, or why it's happening, and the doctor won't help me, and I can't reach anything any more, and Tchaikovsky isn't helping, and my God, I can't even touch my feet..."

Christine arrived. She was in her mid-30s, had high cheek bones but a slightly chubby face. Although without a weight problem, she was none-the-less determined to try every new miracle diet appearing in the Weekly, or on television.

Her husband, Joel, was an asshole. Their two young children were destructive and annoying. For no adequately explored reason, Christine had settled for a life of domesticity.

She knocked on the door. There was no reply. She opened it and saw Simon; a statue of living flesh flailing up from the floor like a grotesque victim in a particularly nasty splatter movie.

"Simon?" Her hushed but ragged tone was one she had practiced for when the doctor told her Joel was going to be conscious for only a few more minutes and realistically had an hour to live.

"Hi," said Simon, voice strained.

Christine walked towards him, and bent over a little. Then, sensing an awkward and somehow politically incorrect situation, she knelt down and hugged him.

"Have you spoken to a doctor?"

"Yeah, I went to see Dr Hender when it first started, but he-"

"Dr Hender?"

"Yeah. And he-"

"You went to see Dr Hender about this?"

"Yeah. He-"

"What did he tell you to do?"

"He told me to listen to classical music."

"Classical music?"

"Yeah, said it was psychosomatic from listening to too much rock music."

Christine picked up the telephone, dialled 911 and asked for an ambulance.

Five minutes later there was a timid knock at the door. Moments later it was kicked down, and two paramedics rushed in.

"Where's the victim?" the first demanded. The man had short cropped hair, and a physique which hinted at a rather serious accident in a steroid factory.

His partner was a short, white man with dreadlocks and Hippie style sunglasses. Christine pointed at Simon.

"Like, where's the rest of him?" the second officer asked.

"I'm all here," said Simon. "It's just half of me has sunk through the floor."

"There's a hole in the floor?" asked the first.

"No. I can still move," Simon stepped forward, "but my whole lower half is, well, insubstantial."

"When did this start to happen?"

"About three days ago."

"Not really a hospital emergency then, is it, sir?" the first explained. "I would suggest you see your GP."

"I've seen him."

"Then we have no business here. If it was serious, he would have referred you to the hospital. You're wasting our time, and you will be billed."

"Yeah, man, like mega-bucks," said the second.

The paramedics left, the second stealing Simon's pot plant on the way.

Christine followed them to the street.

"You can't just leave him here," she said. "Can't you see he's in real trouble?"

"Not our problem, ma'am," said the first, as he climbed into the ambulance and started the engine.

"But, if he, like, kills himself, we'll be right around," said the second. He turned to his partner. "Crank up the flashing lights, man. I have terminal munchies and seriously need to get to a fried chicken outlet."

The ambulance rumbled off down the street.

Christine looked down and saw Simon standing beside her, looking more and more like an angry garden gnome.

"Don't worry, bro', we'll find someone to help you."

Somewhat bewildered, Simon looked at his sister and had the sudden urge to go angling in a rockery.

They returned to the house. Simon rested on the sofa, where the trunk of his body could be easily mistaken for the trunk of some alien tree.

Christine reassured Simon he would conquer this weird, cancerous affliction.

They experimented tentatively. If Simon lifted himself up, he was, however awkwardly, still able to "touch" the missing parts of his body. However, Christine's hand passed through Simon's waist, as if his lower body was simply well organised smoke.

In the afternoon, Christine persuaded Simon to try New Age remedies. Fascinated practitioners from a number of schools of thought, fields of theory and astral planes converged on the house.

"Freaky," said Swami Raymond, as he sat lotus style on the lounge floor, looking at Simon eye-to-eye. The Swami's music sounded in the background like an asthmatic synthesiser struggling to breathe.

Damian Starr was sweeping effeminately around the house, a large amethyst crystal floating and swirling self-righteously in his right hand. He commented on the high number of negative energies in the toilet.

Nevin de la Morte was tracing Simon's aura with his hands, which kept banging into the carpet. Christine pointed him to a trapdoor.

With some dexterity, Nevin was able to fit under the house. There was just enough room to drag his body across the cold, black dirt. With a small torch in his mouth, he made out Simon's backside as it materialised from the floorboards and disappeared into the soil just above knees.

Unaware of Nevin's whereabouts, Simon walked out of the lounge to talk to Christine. In doing so, he walked lengthwise through Nevin de la Morte, who got such a shock he thrust his head up and knocked himself out on a beam.

Swami Raymond dealt the tarot cards, but seemed confused. He turned to a normal pack of playing cards. Simon became aware the predicament when, in dealing from a single pack, three ace of spades came face up on the carpet.

"You're in deep crap," the Swami announced.

"Yes, but all you really need is to change the colour scheme of this house," said Damian Starr, having determined the taste of the water in the toilet bowl was not at fault.

"That won't help at all," said Swami Raymond. "Basically, this guy is doomed. He has no hope of ever being normal again. In fact, my guess is, he will be dead within a week... no offence, Mr Aitken."

"No, no, no," countered Damian Starr, his voice campy, "He has every chance of recovery."

"But I disagree."

"Well, I expect you would. You've never really fooled anyone with those card tricks, you know. You should stick to street corners and 'pick a card, darling...' If you ask me, Mr Swami Raymond Jones, you are nothing more than a charlatan."

"I didn't ask you, you limp-wristed, half-witted ponce. You have all the mystic abilities of a used condom."

"Exactly what I'd expect to hear from a homophobic moron like you."

"Well, fewer people would be homophobic if more bum-chums like you would just have 'the operation' and be done with!"

At that, Damian Starr and Swami Raymond launched themselves at each other; striking out in a fit of New Age pique. Some minutes later the tussle ended in an unexpectedly passionate embrace. The two combatants, straightened their clothes, apologised to Christine, passed a few platitudes to Simon, and left arm in arm.

Christine lay a cushion on the lounge floor and sat with Simon.

An hour or so later Nevin de la Morte woke with a start, banged his head on the same beam and knocked himself out once more. A trickle of blood crept down his neck.

Christine went home, promising to return later that evening if she found time. She did not.

By propping cushions against the lower part of the couch, Simon was able to recline. He stayed up, watching late-night television, hoping again for full recovery.

He dozed.

Testicle-squeezing voices and arcade game music from a breakfast cartoon show dragged Simon from his slumber.

His head was on one of the couch's cushions. He dreaded what might be there when he opened his eyes; it felt as though he was standing.

Simon's scream echoed off the walls of the house.

An intense, powerful, dejected, agonisingly morose cry which left the wallpaper vibrating in a depression of its own.

Minutes later the telephone rang. It continued to ring, monotonously singing out like the last of a species hopelessly searching for a mate.

But Simon didn't answer. Couldn't if he wanted to. He simply stood there; chin resting on the carpet, tears welling in his eyes.

Christine arrived.

She saw him and stifled a scream. She wanted to hug him, to reassure him, to hold him, but there was so little left.

"Am I dying?" he whispered.

"You're going to be all right."

"I can't be optimistic forever. Face facts, 'Tine. Tomorrow I'm just gonna fall right through."

"Hey, even if you do, I'll fly over to Finland somewhere to find you when you come out that end." She smiled through her own tears.

"Isn't that meant to be China?"

"No, that's where Americans go when they fall through the Earth. We're in New Zealand. But I'll look there, too, if you'd like."

"But what about all that lava? Seriously, Sis, I'll be completely fried."

"I can give you a good sun block," she said.

Simon smiled lamely.

"But you're not going down without a fight," Christine announced. "Ouch, that was a terrible pun."

"Awful," Simon agreed.

Christine telephoned the local newspaper and tried to explain the situation. The reporter, Newark Wynckfield, openly doubted the validity of her story, but agreed to have a look because... well, basically he wanted to avoid a two-tooth ewe fair later that day.

Wynkfield turned up about half-an-hour later. He was a narrow man, wearing a grey suit which did not fit him so much as fall on him: his white shirt crisp but maudlin, and his tie a delirious array of colours symbolic of a particularly vivid acid trip. In his left hand he carried a notebook and small dictaphone.

"Hey, there," he said brightly, when he saw Simon.

The past few days told a graphic story on Simon's features. Face wan, with grey black pouches beneath bloodshot eyes. Even his lips had lost colour.

"Hi," said Simon.

"Fallen through a hole?" the reporter asked, reaching forward with his right hand.

"Not exactly." Simon took two steps forward.

"Hey, wow!" Wynkfield stopped.

Simon reached for the outstretched hand. His arm slipped up through the floor, but passed through the journalist's hand.

"Oh, man, this is unbelievable. How long have you been like this?"

Simon related his story. Christine sat in an armchair and listened, clarifying points. It was something of a relief for Simon to recount the recent past. Normality seemed so distant.

A photographer from the paper arrived. Christine prepared coffee. They sat around sipping at the dark, gently steaming liquid, looking at the head on the lounge floor.

The photographer had Christine pose with her brother's head. She had to lean over uncomfortably and smile, but was re-assured it would look good in the photograph.

The morning wore out and became afternoon.

The telephone rang. It was Dr Hender. Wynkfield had apparently called to check out the story. Dr Hender demanded he be able to make a house-call.

"You little shit," he said, storming into the lounge. "How dare you go to the media. What are you trying to do, ruin me?"

He angrily dropped his black case. It was streaked with dust, apparently grabbed hurriedly from its cupboard retirement. The doctor fell to one knee and painfully jabbed one finger into the tender flesh beneath Simon's chin.

"Pulse is normal," he said after a moment. "Give me your right arm."

Simon lifted the specified limb. Dr Hender pulled out his blood pressure kit. But the velcro python passed through Simon's arm.

"Hm. Well, this might be more serious than I first thought," the doctor conceded. "However, it is no reason for you to go running off, whipping up a media frenzy."

From his bag he produced a pill packet. He shook out two small tablets and thrust them into Simon's mouth.

"Take this. It's a placebo. It'll have you back to normal in no time."

"A placebo? That's all you're going to give him?" Christine stood amazed.

"Of course not," the doctor said. He strolled over to the stereo, slipped in a CD, and turned up the volume. The 1812 Overture was stress-testing the windows even as Dr Hender departed.

Christine turned the volume down.

Simon coughed. The foul after-taste from the tablets was still with him. There were more tears as he insisted on dictating his will. He then demanded to hear all his favourite songs played one last time.

"Either I'm okay tomorrow, or I'm gone," he said.

"Don't go," said Christine.

"I don't want to."

Evening had come. The sun dropped, the moon levitated and the stars leered. Nature, awesome in its beauty, demanded to be seen. Humanity, in response, turned on the streetlights, pulled the curtains and watched television.

"I don't know, 'Tine. I just don't know," said Simon, the philosopher at death's door. "I think I'm becoming an illusion. Hell, I might be my own hallucination. Life is shit, and shit happens."

Christine held his head in her hands.

"No one has ever died from this," she said.

"That's because no-one's ever heard of it."

"Stay." Her eyes glistened.

"Yes."

Simon felt an unfamiliar fog in his head. There seemed to be a slight pressure on the inside of his temples.

The telephone rang. It was 1.13am.

Christine got off her cushion, tried to shake awake the leg which had fallen asleep, and went to answer the ill-timed call. But the line was dead.

Simon was looking at the ceiling. He could hear Christine returning. The paint was beginning to flake near the light bulb. That would have to be fixed.

Christine's footsteps came closer, then stopped as she looked out the window at the stars overhead.

There was a half cry as Simon fell.

A day later Nevin de la Morte emerged from under Simon's house, and was rather surprised to find it empty.

Peter Collins felt good. His fresh paramedic's shirt stretched admirably over his impressive upper-body. He looked in the bedroom mirror, tensed a bicep and told the world how good it was to have him in it.

He checked his chin, determined he needed a shave, then ran a hand over his short-cropped hair and grinned. Life was good.

Although... was it just a trick of the light, or did things seem a little taller than they had been yesterday?