Tick. Tock.

Fingers, hands. A face, a smile, a frown, eyes closed. Fingers, hands, strings. Strumming, picking. Squeals and squeaks on the fretboard. Voices, conversation, muffled. Neighbours. Fingers, hands, wild. Moans, grunts, sighs. A bed creaks, springs rhythmically compressed. Clawing, sweat, smiles and hate. Fingers, hands, intense. Violent, aggressive, angry. Gestures, yells, spittle. Creaks. A swing rocks like a pendulum, feet drag on the sand. Tears, sobs, sniffles. Bark. Bark bark bark, growl. Fist slams on the table, the tea cup jumps out of its saucer. Porcelain flies, shattered. Silence.

You're standing on the edge of a precipice. In the moonlight, your eyes stare into the impenetrable darkness below you, and your mind conjures up vivid creatures, phantasms, and soon you believe you see them. Swirls and tendrils of shade-like ink seem to creep up, reaching and clawing at you. You shiver, and desperately want to run away, but the darkness. The darkness. Your thoughts circle and spin in your mind, as you gaspingly search for that answer, that solution, the action. You're waiting, you're running. You don't know what you're waiting for, and a single thought crosses your mind, like a drop. Drip. The answer may be at the end, you think. The bottom, through the darkness. Your eyes gaze deeper into the gaping maw, trying to gleam into that end. You take a half step forward, sliding the sole of your foot through the hard and dried dirt, pebbles rolling under your skin. A soft billow of dust floats up, shone through by a silvery ray. A few other pebbles roll down the wall of the crevice, and you hear their echoing trickle. Your turmoiling mind comes to a halt, the creeping, whispering darkness that pulled you in recedes. You look up at the moon, then down at the darkness. You close your eyes. You inhale.  

Slumps

"Don't take it for granted," they say.

It's a line often heard, and seldom heeded. In true caricatural embodiment of a tired cliché, the story starts as most do: with the initial encounter. A moment of uncertainty, tinged with apprehension. The daunting prospect of initiating something meaningful, of creating a connection. Questions abound: What if it doesn't work? What if we aren't compatible? What if I lose interest? What if?

In time, if compatiblity takes hold, one learns much about the other. A comfortable partnership emerges, where interest is the mainstay of the union. Constant curiosity drives this mutually enlightening stretch, where every day new aspects of the partner's are garnered, small quirks are discovered. Appreciation is at its apogee, and thoughts constantly circle around this newfound pursuit, and the potential of this relationship seems infinite.

Eventually, that most fiery of sparks dims, and the glow fades. Less time is spent with each other, and thoughts no longer center around that alliance which has lost its shine and novelty. Things have come to a standstill, where anything could tip the scales to either direction. One grows accustomed to the presence, though not always immediate, of the other. The knowledge that they are there and easily within reach is enough. The relationship becomes one of convenience, of ease.

Suddenly, one is ripped away from the other. Tragedy strikes, accidents befall or irremediable differences surface. And it is gone.

Goodbye, my dSLR.

Yellow Sundress

“Please.”

I raise my head.

“I beg you.”

I stare into her eyes, searching, seeking.

“Won’t you come back?”

The biting cold of the morning air snakes down my throat, and my voice catches a bit.

“Don’t you remember? All those darned memories. All those fun times we had, all those times? I know you don’t want to, I know you want to. I know you’re trying to push me away, I know that, I know. But I also see it, feel it. You remember those times.”

I gaze hopefully, longingly.

“I remember those times. When we used to spend whole days in that park, in those hot summer days. It was a little run-down, behind the old fabric and a little out of place in that dusty square. It was a little old and not very nice to look at, but to me it was our home. I would push you on the swings endlessly, as you told me about your dreams, your wishes, your loves, your pains, your joys, your everything. I knew you, then. I know you now. I know you see it, them, those summer days. The ice cream, the popsicles, or the lollipops. You liked those purple popsicles most. You’d always get yelled at, remember? Yeah, you’d get yelled at because your mouth would turn all purple. Other times you’d really be punished, because you put purple stains on your yellow sundress. I loved that sundress, you know. Do you remember that sundress?”

I smile.

“When we ran across the tall grass fields, you were this bright yellow speck in the distance. You’re way faster than me, you’d say. But really, you must have known I let you run around and win all the time. And then I’d gaze at you from afar, as you dashed around the field, all bright yellow from your hair to your shoes. You had yellow shoes too, but then you stopped wearing them, because they’d get really dirty from running around in muddy soil.... Please.”

I take a step forward, carefully, fearfully. My hand rises, reaching out toward you.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

I plead with my eyes, my hand, my being.

“Do you remember, then, that one time? That one time, I’m sure you remember. You must remember. It was white everywhere, all white. I chased you around, and we tumbled and fell. Then we spread our arms and legs wide, and reached out to the furthest we could, all around us. You told me we were angels, like this. And I didn’t see it, couldn’t see anything but you as an angel. Not me, never. But then you stood up, held out your hand and pulled me up. You turned me around and pointed: ‘Look,’ you said. ‘we’re angels.’ And I looked and you were right. You turned to me, clasped both your gloved hands around my face and softly touched your lips to mine, and entwined our souls together.”

I take another step forward, emboldened, fearful.

“Please, don’t leave me. Don’t jump.”

I take one more step, then I rush forward with all my being, all my love, both my hands raised forward to grasp...

And I hit the railing, my fingers clutching at nothing but droplets. And my arms are soaked, and so is the rest of my black suit, darkened further. And I look around, but all that greets me is a sea of black umbrellas.

Death and Decay

The acrid stench was thick in the air, acidic and slightly metallic. Everywhere I looked, glaucous eyes stared back, expressionless yet haunting. The lifeless eyeballs, though devoid of animation, were full of intent. They were oppressing, in their silence, their mute accusations. The carcasses lay there exposed for all to see, raw and their pale transluscent skin shone under the harsh lights, seeming aglow with a gleam of their own. The bodies were stacked neatly in rows, piling up high; no reverence was made to these emptied vessels.

Death.

Death everywhere. Death overwhelming. Everywhere I looked, everywhere I walked, in the air, death. I felt suffocated for the first time. I felt my breathing catch once, twice. This never happened before, not here. I struggled to keep my composure, for I had nowhere to go, nowhere to escape to. I closed my eyes, tried to shut out the images, to chase away the horrors but my mind, with morbid self-cruelty conjured the scenes again and again. When I thought I had finally reached a blankness in my thoughts, the stench assailed me, and my stomach threatened to heave. I opened my eyes in panic, looked around for somewhere to go.

“Here you go sir, that will be six dollars and fifty cents.”

I slapped a ten on the counter, grabbed my two tilapias and ran to fresh air.

Trans Fats

The man shoves a french fry into his mouth in a swift, precise movement. Just prior to that, he dipped it expertly with just the right amount of ketchup from the typical condiment paper cup. The moment the fry disappears off in his mouth, fatally crushed and digested, the man picks up another fry and repeats the same sequence, and again. The movements are mechanical and precise, and hypnotizingly constant in rhythm. The man does not seem to really taste the fries, as each one gets gobbled up immediately after the previous one and is chewed on only twice before the next fry takes its place.

I have been staring at this man for a while now, my horridly bland coffee left untouched in front of me. It has gone cold already, but I could care less. This man fascinates me. He’s reading a newspaper as he eats his fries. His burger is still in its wrapping, and I wonder if he will finish his fries before getting started on it.

He suddenly breaks his routine, one beat after swallowing a fry, to take a sip from his drink. It seems to be a cola or some other dark-colored beverage, judging from what is getting sucked up through the white plastic straw. One beat later, he resumes his fry-eating pace, right on the third beat of what I am certain is a four-beat tempo.

I don’t know whether I am disgusted or not.

This man before me seems to epitomize the very essence of the average city man with his eating habit. The thoughtless, mechanical feeding; the seeming lack of any sort of enjoyment for the food; the equal lack of savoring: the lifelessness. Eating for fuel, eating because it’s what he should be doing right now.

I decide that I am disgusted.

Very soon, the stack of fries comes to an end, and he starts peeling the wrapping off the burger. Unexpectedly, he attacks the sandwich mercilessly, his jaw straining for that first murderous bite. You can see mandibular bone protuberances on the side of his jaw, angry veins on his temple, muscles taut in his neck. The urban predator.

Trans fats, cholesterol, junk food. Everyone knows of the dangers, at least vaguely, yet no one really seems to care. Decline to eat unhealthy for fear of trans fats, and you receive a disdainful eyeroll. I believe in the dangers. In fact, I would not be surprised if this man were to topple over in a fit of acute hypercholesterolemia. There is no wood here for me to knock on.

In what seems like less than a minute, the man wolfs down the burger. He then crumples the wrapper, and takes a long sip of his drink. He sits there for a few more seconds, staring off into space, drinking. Then he stands up, slings his bag over one shoulder, grabs the tray and walks over to the nearest garbage can. I decide to follow him.

This sudden fascination for this man that has gripped me is unexplainable. I have no words for it. It simply is a compulsion, an impulse to see the story to its end. What end this story may have, I do not know, nor could imagine. It’s not even interesting. He’s not even interesting. I mull over these thoughts as I grab my own backpack and stand up. I glance at the coffee, alone on the table. I decide to end its miserable existence and throw it in the garbage. I hurry outside, having lost the fast food predator. I step out onto the sidewalk, and spot the man as he’s about to cross the intersection, a little further down the street. I pull the second strap of my backpack over my left shoulder, and jog off towards the street corner. The man melts into the crowd as the pedestrian signal lights up.

Suddenly there’s a piercing screech, screams, a muted thump immediately followed by a loud crash, then silence. Panicked screams erupt, chaos. I had stopped running, but now I dash towards the commotion. I try to push my way through the massing crowd, to see, to join these vultures. What? What? Who?

Lying halfway on the sidewalk, one leg unnaturally bent, is the burger-wolfing man. His face is down against the pavement, the back of his head visibly cracked open and a massive pool of crimson beneath him, on him, from him is steadily growing larger. A car is stopped about three meters away from him, windshield cracked, red webbings. I stare for a while, and no one seems to react. I don’t know what to think.

Trans fats really are dangerous, after all.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------




PS. I really did just write that. What, what.

Moonlit night

Yesternight, timeless with its soft grey haze between the trees
and the moon. Which sighs, white silence drifting forth:
Cain’s parting gift.

Yesternight, restless stillness/dreamless darkness, blows cold
whispers to my fluttering drapes. Shivering heart, pulsing thoughts, I stand mesmerized, whiteness over my feet.

Yesternight, shadows cry mutely gainst the embrace of the moonlit fog
In pain in vain. I yell out in anguish, beating at the glass. Silence, stillness answer back.

Yesternight, I slept.

Snow White

The absolute stillness. Not a heavy kind of stillness, but a peaceful solitude. The silence was clearly resonant, even above the lulling sound of the gravelly rumble beneath me, which exhaled out in a billow of crystalline powder behind me, swirling in the air. I took a deep, relaxed breath, let the cold bite through the whole way, and let it out gently, cloudlike vapour escaping my mouth and trailing behind to join with the dancing, rolling snow mist. It was a casual stroll, but I knew where I was headed. I took one look at the immensity of the clear yet faded blue sky, feeling its enveloping pull towards it. And suddenly I was off, the rumbling climaxing to a high pitched rasp, then abruptly cut off. I felt suspended, immobile in this rushing speed, with the silent air, and the wind howling in my ears. For that one moment, the infinite, impossible expanse of blue felt closer. In that moment, I lived. I grasped the last strands of that infinitesimal point of certainty as they wisped away, at the same time pulling my escaping thoughts back to the moment. I saw the whiteness zipping forth and past. And up to my face.

Hot Dog

            Ugly. Everything was so ugly here. The phone rang for the thirty seventh time, chorusing with the other strident rings of the office.
            And noisy.
            I sighed and stared at the telephone for a while, as it insistently called for attention. I finally willed my arm to move, and picked up the handset.
            "ClearSoul Insurance, how can I help you?" I don't know why the company had such a New Agey name. It didn't really seem very credible. Of course, everyone in the company thought it was pretty serious stuff, judging from all the bustling about, the frantic rhythm of salesman speech, the false enthusiasm of office banter, and the permanent smell of watered-down coffee. I wished everyone would see it. The ugliness, that is. Everything was so ugly. From the moment I woke up to the moment I slid back under my covers, I felt assailed by it. Sometimes, it even found its way to my dreams. And yet, everyday I rose to endure it again, and again.
            "Hello? Hello?" Oh.
            "Yes, my apologies, ma'am." Shrivel up and die, old hag.
            Soon, too late, came my lunch break. I always found it so ironic. What was I taking a break from? Every day, I would take this dreary office and its ugliness, only to find myself faced with more ugliness. Cafeteria, diner across the street, hot dog vendor, ugly. I don't know when I started noticing all this hideousness, or when the word "ugly" took on such a predominant presence in my thoughts.
            I sighed.
            I paid the hot dog vendor double what he charged me, mumbled my goodbyes, and went back through the revolving glass doors. It took all of three minutes and twenty-three seconds. While I stood waiting for the elevator, a sudden thought struck me. I would search for my own beauty in this ugly world. I mean, it must exist somewhere, right? Suddenly excited, I spun right, headed through the fire exit and flew up the stairs. I burst through the other fire door, at the very top, and onto the roof. I stood there for a moment, mustard smeared against my impeccable suit, tie, the works.
            Then I laughed.
            Oh, how I laughed. It was a hearty sound, one so unfamiliar, and I wondered if I had ever laughed this honestly with this adult voice. Somewhat lightheaded from this euphoria, I leaned against the railing, taking a bite of my ruined hot dog.
            Glass and steel expanded before me in pillars, each a different shade, a different size, but all the same. Down below, the criss-crossing lines of traffic seemed so insignificant, and the buffetting winds muffled the honking cacophony, the human chaos. Far, far away, yet bulging so close was the orange sun, so low on the horizon yet merely kissing the world with a burst of light, an explosion ready to cleanse the Earth.
            I leaned further forward, one hand on the railing, the other reaching towards the glowing orb, the long-forgotten hot dog having tumbled down below, returning home. Oh, how I wished I could take a hold of that sun, that burning yet dying light, make it mine. I stretched forward, desire burning within me.
            Suddenly, the wind blew stronger, soaring through me. The world below seemed closer, its chaotic sounds fanfaring loudly, and the sun seemed to grow closer too. I reached out, towards its burning glow, and grasped it.
            Beautiful. Everything was so beautiful here.

Stranger's Kiss

            It was cold. It was cold, yet I was standing outside freezing my ass off. I sighed, and my breath escaped in a steamy swirl in the frosty air. The sun was setting, somewhere, but in the middle of this concrete and steel mess, it was already dark. I was standing against the wall, next to the entrance to the coffee shop, where I had left my things. I didn't want to go back in, couldn't.
            Lost in my thoughts, I hadn't realized that someone had taken the empty wall spot next to me. The rest of the wall was occupied by smokers. It was rather comical, this line of people leaning against the wall, smoking their cigarettes, but I didn't know why. I didn't care, really. I don't smoke. Then, the person next to me unexpectedly spoke up, breaking the unwritten rule of no communication between city strangers.
            "Do you have a light?"
            I turned my head to look at her. "Yeah," I replied, wondering why she would ask the one person on this wall who was not smoking. I fetched the lighter from my pant pocket, and handed it to her.
            She took it, brought it to her cigarette and flicked it a few times until she lit it. She was rather attractive, now that I took the time to actually look. Her short hair was a stylish mess, with strands sticking out haphazardly at all angles, in an eccentric but fitting assortment of purple, red and pink. It rather complemented her small but nicely shaped face, which was adorned with a small, pointy but elegant nose. She turned to hand back the lighter.
            "Thanks a bunch," she said with a large smile. She had clear brown eyes, with a dark green tinge around the edges.
            "Sure." I turned back to face forward, and resumed staring at the glass doors and glass windows and glass everything of the building on the other side of the street.
            "I don't actually smoke," she said after a while, breaking that rule again.
            "So...why?"
            "Life is hard." Such a line, from such a petite little girl with an innocent face. I wondered just how old she was.
            "It's a bitch," I agreed. It pretty much summed up my present feelings. She nodded, and fell silent again. This time the silence felt different, somehow. More companionable. Not the usual silence that followed a forced social interaction between two strangers who really wanted to be elsewhere instead of doing small talk.
            After some time, after my mind left, after the wall occupants changed, she spoke up again. "Want to talk about it?"
            "What?" I stared at her, a little surprised, a lot confused.
            "About how life's a bitch. Fine, I'll start." And she proceeded to tell me about what seemed like all of her life's problems. A boyfriend who was seeing other women. A long time friend who had left for another continent. A father dying of lung cancer (at which point she took a long drag from her cigarette). A mother who was slowing driving her insane. School. Work. Life. "What about you?" She looked at me expectantly.
            "Nothing much," I replied, not used to this kind of interaction with another person. She tilted her head slightly, and raised a delicate eyebrow, signaling a clear skepticism. I hesitated for a few moments then suddenly, facing those clear, innocent-looking eyes, I thought it would be okay. "We broke up. I came in today, I saw her in the far corner, talking to some guy, holding his hand." I realized it sounded rather insignificant in comparison. "Like I said, it's nothing much," I added.
            "So you're hiding from her?"
            "I guess."
            "Then won't she see you when she comes out?"
            "I guess." I hadn't thought of that.
            "Well, then," she announced with finality, and reverted to leaning against the wall, having apparently decided that the conversation was over.
            A few more moments in silence passed. This time, I felt it was heavy, pressing. There was an itching urge to say more. I looked over at her, but she seemed perfectly at ease, a slight smile gracing her lips as she looked at the passerbys. I stared at the glass building again, returning to my thoughts.
            "Can I kiss you?"
            I turned to stare at her.
            "Can I kiss you," she asked again, as if I hadn't heard.
            "I'm sort of taken."
            "'Taken' is such a pretentious term."
            "I meant I'm with someone."
            "I know. And that's a lie."
            "Damn." I turned away from her again. I knew I was avoiding her. And who wouldn't? Kiss me? What a craze. A few more moments passed in silence.
            "So why not?"
            I turned towards her again. "Because it doesn't make sense." I was getting angry, and I didn't know why.
            "So everything has to make sense to you? Does your life make sense to you?" She was getting aggressive too, but a little smirk kept on tugging at the corner of her lips.
            "Not always," I admitted.
            "Then let me kiss you."
            "No," I replied forcefully.
            "It will make you feel better. Let me kiss you. As a friend, only as a friend," she was almost begging, strangely enough. What in the world did I get into? I stared at her for a while longer.
            "Okay," came the reply, before I was even aware of formulating it. "As a friend," I insisted, and leaned my cheek towards her.
            She grasped my chin gently with cold fingers, and turned my head to face her. Then she stared deep in my eyes for a fraction of a second, closed her yes, and her lips touched mine, feather light. The pressure increased ever so slightly, and she pulled back, smiling.
            "If that's how you kiss your friends, I want to be one."
            "You are now." She winked, and without any warning, simply picked up her bag, and walked off skipping lightly, her flashy hair bouncing.

Pizza Disaster

          I'm chewing on a bite of vegetarian pizza. It's rather bland, with a slightly pasty feel which sort of reminds me of hardening candle wax. I've never tasted wax, mind you, but that's what this pizza nonetheless reminds me of. I've also never eaten vegetarian pizza before, and I wonder if this is what vegetarian pizza should taste like. Anyway, like I was saying, I'm chewing on a bite of vegetarian pizza, when I see her. She's holding a pamphlet of some kind which, from her confused expression and scouting glances, I guess must be a map. Frustrated, she crumples the map in one hand, and turns to the nearest passerby, trying to get his attention. Unsurprisingly, the man goes on about his business, turning his head away, in that ever familiar attempt at nonchalance from the typical city dweller. After witnessing a few more fruitless attempts, I debate whether I should come to her aid. Of course I should, I tell myself. She needs help, I can help her. Probably. Suddenly, a voice shakes me out of my musings. Looking up, I am slightly shocked at seeing a pair of piercing blue eyes gazing back.
          "Having fun?"
          I realize the eyes aren't as much piercing as they are angry. I kind of knew that "piercing blue eyes" was only a cliché found in novels. A second realization sinks in: I am expected to answer.
          "Um..." I manage dashingly.
          "I hope I entertained you thoroughly with that spectacle. Thank you. Really."
          She glares at me some more with those disdainful eyes.
          She is beautiful.
          "Wow. Are you for real? Give me a break," she huffs, before turning to leave.
          It takes a few seconds for it to dawn on me that I spoke my last thought out loud. What a moron. I swallow. A lump of chewy stuff makes it way down my throat. The pizza, I note with an inward groan. Not only did I have my foot in my mouth, it was also happily stomping down on a half-chewed piece of pizza disaster.
          "Wait," I let out, standing up hastily. I freeze. What now? What a moron, I think again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."
          She turns around, still glaring. I briefly wonder what other people must be thinking. The food court-like place was in the middle of the subway station corridor, with a delimiting border giving the customers a sense of seclusion from the chaotic pedestrian traffic. We're both standing on either sides of the social fence. I'm standing up right at my spot at the table, my chair had fallen over with the weight of my backpack hanging on it.
          "I mean, I did mean it, you're beautiful, it just wasn't supposed to come out." I was babbling. I didn't know I could babble. They say self-discovery is a lifetime process. "Let me help you, " I finally blurt out, then hold my breath.
          She looks at me oddly for a moment, then sighs, looking down briefly. "Sure."



Note: That went nowhere.
Note²: I don't suppose pizza in the middle of the night is any healthy.

"Deliverance"

And so he wept, this broken man, this innocent child. For love won and love lost, for the fainting lullabies and crying pictures. He grasped at spring's laughter, summer's whispers, autumn's smiles, in haste, in hope. In vain. But came winter's gusts, and in their wake remained naught but whiteness, so dark and so red in this unending night.