tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16245168312038728122024-02-08T04:03:27.575-08:00Tales from a ConscienceUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1624516831203872812.post-51549140450241062572011-02-03T10:39:00.000-08:002011-02-03T10:39:10.886-08:00II<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She sits quietly in her room, a crumpled square of paper pressing tightly against her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The full moon shines through her open window, the pale white light glimmering against her black tresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has not yet read the words on the ragged page; she fears what she may find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly, under the glow of the moon, she carefully unfolds the paper she knows will shatter her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She reads it slowly first, absorbing every word, taking in every meaning, assimilating every thought, idea, and emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She can see him toiling over the page, grinning after finishing a clever line, becoming frustrated when all thoughts leave him, and carefully making the leaf with the threads of his heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears fall from her eyes and stain the page, smearing the boy’s signature at the bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She moves from her window and collapses onto her bed, clutching the sheet tightly against her bosom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knows she will not sleep tonight, or for many nights coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looks at the page once more and begins to read aloud into the pale glow of the night.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The vibrations make me feel nauseous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or I suppose it would be ‘awkward’ the closest human feeling I can equate, for I do not get ‘nauseous’ in the human sense of the word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My human male is out on a hunt, the music pounding loudly around us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are at what is called a “club”, some all night party where the music is loud and bad and the people share no morals; the lust in the air tastes like sweaty musk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not amused and apparently neither is my human.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ‘catch’ here is not of his liking, not of his standard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything to remove ourselves from this mess, I permeate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He nods to himself in mental agreement (of course he listens now).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quality over quantity I mused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seeing the lights in the city is always my favorite part of our <st1:time hour="0" minute="0">midnight</st1:time> excursions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The light mix of emotions in the air allow for a nice, relaxed meal, away from the intruding seduction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at my human, his dark brown eyes thoughtful and piercing, looking out into the black water below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His wavy onyx hair is long, causing him to brush it from his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prod his essence out of curiosity, looking for some sort of sign as to what he is thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He motions for the driver to raise the window separating them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What are you doing?” he says looking at me…or where my presence is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was just curious, you’ve been enigmatic lately </i>I exhaled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Lately? Try 3 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve had this discussion before.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, yes I know…I’m just always so very hungry.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He looks away back into the deep forbidden water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose our conversation has ended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The car stops at the corner, my human paying the driver and stepping out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another night, another place, another seemingly meaningless face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walks smoothly to the bartender and orders a drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is an attractive female, her hair a red as if the sun was about to set, her features sharp and intelligent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He talks with her only for a moment before joining his friends…and yet I know he has already made his decision.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’s an alarm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A loud, constant noise that drones on unending, reverberating amongst the halls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Would you please quiet down? </i>I politely extruded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m just doing my job, sir, sorry.</i> the alarm resonated.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Suddenly, there is a gunshot to break the monotony and I witness the black shroud of fear and death descend over the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wail of police sirens can be heard not far off, a few early birds already screeching to a halt in front of the bank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are covered in a golden glow of righteousness, a sweet honey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only they knew it were for naught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sense an abnormality inside and investigate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The read aura of bloodlust bathes the safe, mingling with the mortal human red of blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appears I missed a death; if I could frown I would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The emotion released at death is a momentous thing, not one someone like me readily enjoys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine a buffet that contains all flavors, all delicious scrumptious amazing morsels possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now imagine that the buffet is crammed down into a single meal without losing its potency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is what death is to me, the culmination of a person’s emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is quite a beautiful thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A masked figure enters the safe grabbing a filled satchel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He steps over the body of what I assumed was a bank guard but in actuality seems to be an accomplice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I follow the criminal, and sensing the stigma of death on his essence I enter it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am in a barren room, a door in front of me, and a child sitting in the center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His back is facing me and he is rocking back and forth muttering under his breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I move toward the door ignoring the child.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Won’t you play with me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no physical form, no being so to speak, even inside the essence, so the child should not be speaking to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can it be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The child’s left had is bleeding profusely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his right, he holds a small razor, blood dripping from the glinting blade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is methodically slicing off his own fingers!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“play…with…me…play…with….me…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With every word the blade sinks deeper and deeper, cutting through dream flesh and dream bone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The child looks up at me, at no one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes are hollowed out empty sockets, black bile dripping from the orifices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Horrified, I slipp through the door, the drab oaken room fading from my view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even as an ethereal being, the inner notions of humans can be somewhat disturbing at times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first thing I notice now is the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the taste or smell of it, I have no lungs nor nose, but a simple certain familiar haze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am in a dimly lit space of what seems to be a warehouse, lights spotting the ceiling giving the area an eerie mood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I finally realize what the haze is, a pale purple coat of dread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erupting from the crates ahead of me is a figure of a man, lit ablaze as if he has just returned from the gates of Hades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He runs, clam and collected past me, agony strewn across his charred face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He trips and falls to the ground, the flames magically dousing themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smoke from his burnt flesh rises to the air, carrying a pale blue delicacy of relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The body has no features besides that of a black film, as if his skin is no longer skin but some metal or rock, the constant conflagration hardening his surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man groans, slowly rising first to one knee panting, then to his feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tilts his head back unleashing a terrifying scream, filling the space with blast after blast of rage and hate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He begins to run anew, the newly burned flesh of his feet cracking and sticking the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a sound like that of a doorbell, loud, beautiful, and dreadful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even I reverberate from its grandiosity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another wave of anguish and the man is ablaze once again, continuing his marathon of pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I witness this cycle repeat itself an infinite amout of times, fascinated by the man’s subconscious reasoning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this self-torture, a burden placed on his essence to atone for some terrible deed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is he trying to strip himself from humanity, burning away his emotions; his pain is his sanctuary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ponder the inequities of humans, losing myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He and the girl at a table in the corner chatting, sharing falsities of this and that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am watching from afar, more interested in what he would deem his ‘friends’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, he believes in a world where true friendship no longer exists in society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True friendship is a bond that is created at birth, someone who shares this bond with you shares your experiences, your feelings, your thoughts and ideals, from the very moment of existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A very foolish notion, I personally believe, if believing were I thing I could do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose, after some thought, his idea of companionship is more modern; a cruel view of the world in which trust is a usual commodity given out to anyone in return for some sort of payment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even so, it is no excuse to plunge into moral depravity, to sin in excess just to validify ones own existence, ones own purpose; to feel everything they can possibly feel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Ironic, how I, a devourer of feelings, judge another on wanting to feel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1624516831203872812.post-26957299215877990592011-01-17T13:27:00.000-08:002011-01-17T13:27:11.321-08:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">I</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The day is cold and cloudy, a light snow melting on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The child I am following is waiting for the bus, he is anxious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today is the day, he has decided, he will tell her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I follow along sampling his anxiousness, a light morning snack to tide me over for the main repast to follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can smell the bus before the boy can see it, a rushing bull reeking of delicious, addicting emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The machine rounds the corner; the feelings emanating from its iron hull are palpable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy shivers, a gust of wind and something more piercing into his soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sighed, or thought of sighing, perhaps even wished to sigh, for I cannot physically do so myself, I have no lungs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy is in his seat now, his head pressed against the cool window, music playing loudly in his ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has locked himself in a tortuous mental prison, thinking and over thinking the situation, playing and replaying the scenario, the ideal outcome, the tolerable one, and lastly the ruinous failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bus continues forth and as time passes the boy’s anxiousness grows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It fills his essence like a putrid toxin, encapsulating his being in a morbid fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relax, I emanate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be calm, it will be as it must, I exude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The anxiousness lessens, but does not dissipate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy rarely listens to me in the times he most desperately should.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A body places itself into the seat next to my boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a sweet aroma, or perhaps a sweet feeling since I am unable to smell, regardless it is something that would remind you flowers, and suddenly the music stops. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The child looks over, his heart fluttering for a moment, yet he is unaware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His childhood friend sits next to him, a girl of his own age, dark wavy black hair like that of a pedigree mare, so smooth and silken that to touch it would forever destroy a mans perception of beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, this is not the girl he wishes to speak to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy fidgets awkwardly in his seat, attempting to understand and articulate that feeling inside the depths of his viscera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He talks with the girl freely and openly, they have been friends for quite some time now, sharing everything and anything…except this one secret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have speculated for a while now that, despite the connection these two share, they will never fully realize the potential they have for each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I can easily see it now, the way she hangs on to his every word, the way she watches him breath in and exhale out, how she playfully ruffles his hair and then moves her hand away with the slightest hesitation, how she longs for it to mean something more than jest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My child is blind to this dream; his so called love has already been given to another, his lust and sex drive him towards a false god.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He mentions his figure of affection, a Medusa of desire, and a harpy of passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watch the girl carefully, she understands well enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anger flows into the air first, its red hue melding with the green of the leather seats they perch on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly it shifts, becoming a mix of blue and white, despair and lost hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Written on her face, she wonders why her Adonis would care for such a trivial woman, yet she says nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her actions scream of shock, she belittles herself for her ignorance, the anger rising up again to wash away her sea of doubt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This foul little temptress will not take her man away!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, still, she says nothing, digging deeper, adding bolt and chain and lock to her strongest feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had a head to shake, I would do so here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do humans hide so much of themselves from others?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this question will never be answered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bus comes to a stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy, his head held high, steps into the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His anxiousness is no longer detrimental, his new found confidence built on the cracked shattering world of the one whose love is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is the last thing on his mind now, while he is the first on hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bell rings signaling the start of learning, and while the other children file into the building, a single female stands in the center of the path, her hair like black silk ribbons, head turned up to the sky, gaze filled with the gray clouds of a cold winter morning, and she whispers, “I love you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The boy is in his seat now, in the far back left hand side of the room, idly looking out the window, rain drops sliding down one by one like a <st1:state><st1:place>Kentucky</st1:place></st1:state> horse race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gray winter clouds have become fierce and black, tumultuous wisps of air and water dance around to the beat of thunder under the flashing crack of lightning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if by providence, the boy looks at the doorway as his Aphrodite/Lilah arrives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her golden wheat hair lies straight and boring on her shoulder, her sharp nose pointed up in disgust at the plebeians she must associate with on a daily basis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes are locked on her figure; he drinks in her very presence like an alcoholic alone with a bottle of fine liquor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reads her every movement, watches her lips form the words she speaks, her chest as she inhales to continue her pathetic unimportant drivel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have seen this girl and many like her before, they come and go in continuous waves, like a flock of sheep, ever changing to suit and conform to the needs of men, a shallow husk destitute of complex emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has no friends, only those who wish to be like her, those who want to revel in the attention she pretends to provide or those who wish to usurp the lime-light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is the penultimate mock beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It disgusts me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to regulate this to the child, but no one ever listens when they need to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take a look at her again, prying into the essence, searching for some redeemable quality unseen to normal eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hidden in the bottomless, abandoned, barren, forsaken, stark void of her essence there is a mirror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its frame is made of silver, gems of all sizes and shapes encrust it, a gaudy mess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small girl prances in front of the glass, an oversized fur coat draped over her, bright red heels many sizes too big adorn her petit feet. Her toes wriggle in delight as she watches her reflection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is her self-image, her concept of beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is, to me, an image of complete insolence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I leave behind the girl and the mirror, the experience disturbing me deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are no longer in the class room sitting in the seat beside the window,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the boy now sits among his peers for lunch, his eyes flitting back and forth to the girl and the topic at hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His friends know of today’s endeavor and they offer him support and advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All save for one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has been silent since the boy made his plans known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes too dart back and forth, between him, the girl, and a familiar figure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the childhood friend from the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had almost forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My memory, if you would call it that, is fleeting, only sweet, delicious emotion stays with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A foreboding blackness oozes out of this particular child, an impenetrable shroud of hate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is not as blind as my boy, he has noticed the way the girl dotes on his friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wishes she would stop chasing such futility and open her eyes, he lives for her!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it seems humans follow a general trend; he says nothing, putting his feelings into an eternal cage of self-pity and deprivation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bleak black cloak of his bitterness washes across the table, a tasteful sample of humans more devilish ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another bell rings and the moment of truth draws closer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The teacher is standing in front of the class, his back facing them as he writes the equation on the blackboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice is monotone with no enthusiasm; this is the same lecture he has taught time and time again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is as bored with the class as his students are; his thoughts drifting to and fro like a morning eddy in crystal clear water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did not want to be a teacher, stuck in the dredges of societal want, repeating the same rubbish day in and day out to inattentive ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not once can he think of a moment where a student offered a sincere thank you for the information he passed so willingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His resentment is a pale yellow aura, vibrating and pulsing in rhythm with his thoughts of lost opportunities and failed dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only he had pushed himself harder in school, if only his parents had been of higher social status, if only society didn’t require so much from him, if only this, if only that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pale yellow of his lost causes makes it seem like he is wearing a golden suit fit for that of St. Peter at the gates of Heaven…or for Satan himself as he sits on his Infernal Throne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students snicker in the background of the teachers thoughts, interrupting him in his haven of self-loathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turns to see who it is so he can make a mental note and reprimand them later in his own subtle way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has been doing this for years now, doctoring the grades of those students he likes and dislikes; his own brand of personal justice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A viscous green goop plops onto his desk as he sits down, his malnourished and ill-begotten feeling of justification ejecting itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I devour this readily, as I am an eater of all emotion and feeling, be it right or wrong, strong or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet the main course is still to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bell rings.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The boy has been waiting carefully now for the past hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is preparing to strike, waiting for his prey to leave the safety of numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows that she tends to walk alone to a certain place and that is when he will confront her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His anxiousness has returned but it has lessened and settled into the recesses of his mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a simple question that denotes a simple response and from there he will take it to wherever he can, he feels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His confidence begins to well up, a bright indigo cape trailing behind him though there is no wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I munch on this for it is not an emotion the boy readily frequents and so its taste is bizarre yet appealing to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl bids her farewells and leaves the crowd, it is time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy follows her, the indigo cape slowly diminishing as he approaches her; it is a mere memory by the time he reaches her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He fumbles for the words he wants to say, even though he has practiced this moment a hundred, nay, thousands of times over in his thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl barely looks at him, wondering with disgust how this lowly being would dare speak to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy knows he is on his way to failure, the bottomless pit already beginning to form in his bowels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pulls a small square piece of paper from his back right pocket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He unfolds it, the paper smudged with eraser marks, the writing lightly smeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah yes this paper, I recall, brought me a most scrumptious repast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reads it out loud to the girl, knowing that if anything this will win her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy is not remarkable physically or mentally by any means, however if I were human I would have to say he has a way with words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first, her face is blank; there is no trace of emotion, no figure of coherence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy is slightly puzzled; this reaction was not one of the many scenarios he imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks away from her and back to his written piece when suddenly there is a sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl has caught up it seems, her face now broken with laughter, the orange light of her mirth exploding out into the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walks away without a second thought, leaving my boy clutching the wrinkled frazzled paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He does not know how to act, does not know what he should do now, his ‘love’ has been rejected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You should have listened, I expunge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I wait in anxiousness, for the time to feast has arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He crumples the paper with his hearts devotion and drops it to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He feels utterly nothing, the calm before the storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bell rings and he walks towards the buses, his hands clenched, his eyes dry, his jaw locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I wait in desperation, the boy a broken mess, the music playing loudly again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His childhood friend sits next to him on the bus, but he has not said a word to her, nor she a word to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knows he was rejected and he knows that she wants to comfort him, but he refuses to let her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is his punishment he tells himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is his punishment for not being good enough he believes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In silence they sit, till the girl departs with a wave and a sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turns back before she steps from the bull and whispers the two words of apology even though she knows the boy will not see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doors close behind her, and finally the boy releases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears begin to stream down his face; his knuckles turn white as he presses his fist into the streaked glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His body erupts in a blue glow of sadness, of ultimate despair.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">This is the moment I have been waiting for.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7