Running

She was but a little girl. Of unknown dangers, she hadn’t learnt. Gleefully, enjoyably, she ran amok other little children. She did not know there was a monster lingering on. She did not even know monsters existed. She skipped and hopped, laughed with a shrill cry, that only little girls are capable of. Unbeknownst to her play, afternoon turned to evening and before she knew it, she had wandered off into the dusky boonies. She was left alone now, all the children had heeded to their mother’s call for supper, except her.

The cold wisp of the upcoming fall made her long for her coat. The blades of the grass were feeling wetter with each step now. She wondered what she was walking upon. Her judgement was telling her to turn back and find her way home. But curiosity trumped her psyche. Very soon, she was in need of galoshes; the squish and the squirm was too much for the little huaraches she had strapped on. Her yellow dress and her light brown hair were starting to bear the brunt of the muck surrounding her. She finally began to fear, she longed for home, she longed to be safe.

The monster lurking behind her all this while sensed that the little girl was ready to prey upon. At first, his red eyes gleamed with gluttony. His breath sharpened as he got ready to pounce. His heart, or whatever that organ was that thudded within his dirty chest, paced at a thundering rate. He did not make a sound, slithering like a snake. The trees sighed at his soft maniacal laughter. His eerie presence was sensed by the little girl. She turned back and screamed, screamed like only a scared little girl can. The wilderness came alive with her screams. Torches were lit, pitchforks sharpened, and men, women and dogs, ran towards the squishy puddle.

Horrified, the monster froze. He did not know if he should hide or run. He looked around himself, he looked at the disapproving trees. He saw the slowly marching torches towards him. He decided not to make a run for it, not this time, when he had come so close to being discovered. He stood his ground, all the while listening to the little girl scream. He made no attempts to silence her, he made no attempts to calm her. He just stood there, waiting for the discernment. He discovered a small knife in his pocket and whipped out the shiny blade out of his pocket as fast as he could. He laughed and told the still screaming little girl, “Ally, my little girl, I was looking for you!” He slit his wrists and let the blood gush out; the red mixed with the murky water in the puddle. The slit wrists resembled a fountain of red, a raging stream of red, leaking wildly. Ally now looked at the unconscious man closely, lying in the pool of blood and dirty water, and wondered, “He looks like the man from the pictures mum showed me.” She began wailing, confused and scared. Soon, she saw her mother approach in the distance, carrying her yellow galoshes. The galoshes she knew her father had brought her, not so long ago.

Rampage

The dependence on alcohol develops over time. The dependence on controlled substances develops over time. The dependence on someone develops over time. The dependence on routine develops over time. The dependence on dreams develops over time. Over time, everything develops and deconstructs.

The man was in need of a bottle of bourbon. And some pills. And someone to talk to. He had everyone around him, but he was as alone as he had ever been. The capricious child, the sleeping zombie, the zoo he call home, were not exhibiting the usual inviting vibes tonight. he was in need of port-keying to another dimension. Why was this urge to escape so strong? He could not, He would not, but the fact remains, there was an urge. He was not ashamed of it. He liked escaping, into a world where everything he imagined was possible. And he imagined so little. He asked to be happy, without being unhinged. He asked to see the snow, without wearing a jacket. He wanted to get away from people and places.

Him, his solitude, just stare out the window. Morose and engulfed by the shenanigans of the world, he poured himself a golden elixir. Within minutes of gulping it down, he was dancing with the wolves, yodelling with the werewolves, flying with vampires and flirting with the witches. Aah! That elixir had brought to life all the merry things he so wished for. He no longer was gloomy, if only a tad unsteady. He looked around the same room he was in before and realised that the crystal had found its way to the ground, much to the chagrin of the old lady he lived with. He did not care. He smiled a sinister, satisfied laugh and ran into the snow-field, where, weeks ago, he had dug a hole, about six feet deep, now blanketed with brown twigs and snow. He laughed maniacally at his own grave and jumped in. He stayed there and wondered if he should put a window there, so he could see through. He wondered if the snow tonight would freeze him solid. He laughed at the thought of that and began to pack snow into balls, throwing it in the air and catching it over his dirty brown hair. He did this till he was tired. He did this till a wold cried in the distance. He laughed and howled back. He decided it was time to go, and he started to sit up, climb up, but the stormy snow did not help. He tried, he gave up. He let the snow take over and took cover in the snow. He lay down with perfect contentment, smiling with a heavy heart. He asked the snow to tell the sun to give a light kiss to his wife and son in the morning. He asked the snow to not melt and stay there, even when the sun shone. He thanked the snow and lay there in peace.

Three days passed, the-zombiesque woman that he lived with remembered that someone was missing from their house. The dogs smelled him out. He was smiling, albeit a purple-blue smile, the dirty brown hair, slicked by the snow. The body, as rigid as can be. His eyes were open, much to the bewilderment of the locals. They hadn’t seen many bipolar bears on the other side of the rainbow. A funeral procession was held, much to the dislike of the deceased, where hymns and hyacinths were laid. He chuckled from within his dark coffin, “What are they chanting about? I was a bipolar, and they all though I was crazy.” 

Siesta

Eight hundred minutes and more, the eyes stayed shut.

The restless mind, opened a portal of colours and woes.

Men, women and children and some unknown creatures too.

Played and pranced on the blank canvas in the open hut.

When daylight came, the mind was more marred,

By distant memories of the night left ajar.

 

 

A black pot of coffee, sat on the table,

Waiting to be guzzled by notorious men.

A killer, a rapist and a conman.

The house lay quiet, not a whisper was heard.

For all who lived within had been dead or hurt.

The three men quietly retreated in the silhouette,

After having a meal of shards and omelette. 

As the sun rose higher, they cussed and sweated,

For climbing uphill, was fickle and false-hearted.

Of all their wrong-doings, they pondered,

The child, the dog and the urn,

Shouldn’t have been disturbed.

 

A down-feather sleeping bag

A bucolic home with windows wide

On a gently raising mound,

Green grass by the pond,

And virgin snow on the side.

Dirty stream of barley water,

Smokey herds of the sheep,

Beckoned the clear skies,

And us two, within.

By the warmth of the fire,

By the quiet of the night,

By the wit in your marrow,

You said we were not right.

“Happy Birthday”, sang I,

Curled up in a sleeping bag,

Waiting for the frost to take over,

Zipped and carted with a lag.

Left me on a mountain top,

Didn’t fret about the hop.

A million little pieces fell,

In that snowy little hell.

Someday, when I’m old,

Older than an oak,

I’d like to tell the story,

To my kin and folk.

I promise I will not cry,

As I cried that night.

But promises are seldom kept,

As you proved by the light.

 

 

Lucid Dreams

A crystal globe, the size of a plum, adorned the heavyset desk in a musty, den-like room, full of books, some dog-eared, some yellowed from never have being opened. An intimidating couch lay perpendicular to the desk, where many a tales were told. The venerable doctor, adjusted his bespectacled frame and asked once again, “So what did you do afterwards?”

Was that for the couch to tell? Or was that for the doctor to assume? It replied, in between sobs, “I lay the bottle aside.” The doctor gasped at this prospect. He was so enthralled with the tale the couch had told so far that he half-expected the bottle to have been emptied. Shaken from his reverie, he further enquired, “And why did you do that?” The couch had no answer. Except big, fat rolling tears. The doctor assumed it was from the shock of coming so close to wielding the powers of the bottle. He contemplated if he should perhaps use a different approach. He steered clear of the oracular subject and very deliberately asked, “Did you regret it?”. The couch sat up, wiped away the tears with the shirt-sleeve and said, “Not one moment, not at all.” Perplexed, the doctor asked, “So, what do we do now?” The couch said, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

Exasperated, the doctor opened his notebook and began reading his notes out loud. Cringing as the words came out, the patient in question closed his eyes and saw the mist, the lake on the side of the road, the absence of people except in cars, the rain, the little cottage, the branches under which he stood. the pair of hands he had held. As the spiel continued, he, the patient, recounted how he had kissed those hands and then, almost out of romance, torn open the thorax and revealed a bloody, beating heart. Horrified at the recollection, he asked the doctor to stop. He woefully said, “I know I should regret it, but I do not. Cure me!” The doctor ran his dexterous fingers through the few strands of greying hair on his head and said, “Time, my dear, time!” He let him sob and sob some more. He did not offer a glass of water, nor coffee, nor a tissue to wipe away his tears. He let him cry.

After some time had passed, the doctor very simply asked, “Does that feel better, son?” He received a slow nod in answer. Not knowing what to do or say next, the doctor waited patiently. The silence in the room was comfortable. Comfortable enough to be lured into the magical world of dreams. The patient on the couch, now well-rested and reassured of the doctor’s prowess, recounted the tale, albeit with a shiver running down his spine. He recalled the many good-byes, the many nights, the many drives, the many telephone calls, the many promises, the many glasses of vodka, the many laughs, the many dreams. He laughed at his musings. He said with a satisfied smile on his face at last, “You know, I came so close, but I did not do it.” The doctor agreed. He realised that even if he was dissimulating the encounter, there was a speck of sincerity that he believed was pardonable. He signed the release forms and let him go.

Daunted at the prospect of letting loose a maniac, the doctor suddenly opened his eyes, much like a body being exhumed from rest. He looked around and inspected the room, the chair, the empty couch, the books, the notes. He heaved a sigh of relief. The rain thudded against the windows. The almost empty bottle of whiskey lay open, the smell mingling with the mustiness of the room. He wiped away his own tears, smiled pensively and gazed at the sombre tears from the skies.