Saturday, 18 February 2012

Lost Souls



Silly Buggers

The evening sky can have a murderous effect on imagination, especially when one is dead tired. There are not many choices left. I just cruise the country-roads in my red truck. It's falling into pieces just like me. Gone are the days when we had sturdy bodies fueled by wild imagination. Now it groans just like me and drags me through the dust it lets fly. I wish we die together, someday. Grumpy, if you like, the two of us.

Where do I go today? It's the same place, it never changes. The dust smells the same, the breeze is humid and salty. It tells of the sea that I hate. I used to like the sea. That was long time back. Now I hate to think of all that nonsense. Useless summers.

I just wish my friends were all dead. They are a burden. I would love to sit alone in the bar. But they are there every evening, silly buggers. They drag their stinking bodies to the bar and try to jeer at each other, showing decayed teeth and the increasing gaps where some other teeth had been. They try to cheer me up. I hate to be cheered up. I'm better off in my truck, listening to its groans.

The Wise Old Woman

She is very old. Could be in her late eighties. I met her a few days ago near the grass field. She was huddled over something very small. I stopped my truck, and she was shocked to hear its cough and whirr. But she didn't let go off what she held in her hand. It was alive and wriggling - too fast that I couldn't make out what it was.

"It's a rodent", she said.

"What's it for?"

"I eat it", she said, with a chuckle.

She looked wise, and old, and hungry, in her hollow eyes and leathery skin.


Idiot

He calls his friends silly buggers, and he stops me on the middle of the road to look at things. He doesn't look at people any more. It was a surprise to me that he spent time talking to that stinking hag the other day. I thought he was going to take her to me. I didn't want that, but thought it might help him brighten up. She was worse than him, and he seemed happy about that. But she walked away, holding a dead rodent in her hand. She was going to eat it, I knew.

He is a loser, an idiot. He just walked back to me and drove me to the bar. Where else!

Poor Boy

He doesn't recognize me. I was older than his mother. He didn't care for me when he was really young, but when he was old enough to know better, he used to taunt me, with his school friends. I was the local prostitute - the only one. They could have stoned me to death, but they didn't. They needed me - as a point of reference, a cautionary tale, a secret longing.

And I survived all those family ladies. His mother died fifteen years ago, and I'm still alive.

He is a loser, a lost soul. He would have enjoyed being me, given a choice. I thought he wanted a share of the roasted rodent. That happens, when there's nothing to do with one's life. Look at his truck - it's almost dead, and he's still riding it. Poor boy!


Death in the Late Evening

She died too fast, in the field. I just tried to ease off the nerves on her neck, which got strained in an effort to cling to life. That was necessary. She had to die someday, and I didn't feel sorry about the whole thing. I had to be there - to see her fight, for wretched life.

I thought of taking her body in my truck to some place. But why bother? She's already dead, and what's the use in carrying her further? She belonged to the field. She got her rodents there. She hid herself from others there. She knew there were snakes there, but wouldn't have imagined how one would get her. I thought of killing, but left alone, the one which strangled her, as she was lying there, with her right hand inside a hole in the ground, trying to take out her lunch for the day.

The Beach

I don't know whether I see things as they are. I am disintegrating at great speed, and my lights work only when they wish so. My red paint peels off faster than the cells that multiply, and some those refuse to do so, in him.

We know that we are going to die soon, but are we sure that the wise old woman existed? There is a chance that she was just an apparition - the kind that occurs to us when we near the end of a journey.

He just leaves her, among the snakes and rodents left to their own games, in the middle of the field. He walks towards me. I know from his looks that we won't go anywhere near the bar today. At last, he is going to make up his mind. He drives me away from the village, to the mountains, and then we slide down the winding ways, the wind against our chests, to the sea.

I wait for him near the beach. I lose him among the crowd. How I wish I could see him alone, against the sands, the sea, and the evening sky, like he used to be! But now I'm afraid whether he will come back, ever, from the vast confusion of bodies. We had a deal, that we will stay together till we die. He must remember that.


Inspired by: http://creativewriting.ie/2012/02/13/creative-writing-prompt-13th-february/