Gotcha

My head thumped louder than the music, if that was even possible. Very soon, it would break the sound barrier and explode like a ripe melon. Damn! I wonder if my brains will look psychedelic through these glasses.
Man, what’s the saying. Too old for disco, too young to die.

Stop drooling and focus grandpa,’ my ear mic cackles.

I smirk as a pretty young thing brushes past. ‘This grandpa’s still got his swag.’

My eyes follow her taut ass as she walks up to a pair of guys. Despite the harsh lights I notice one pass her the pills.

Dealer.

North-east side. Two males. Alpha in burgundy jacket,’ I relay as my team closes in.


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 43 challenge, based on a photo credited to Hybrid

The White Lady

Baby-sitting an acres large property out in the wilderness – as a poor near starving student on a sabbatical this was a dream job. The old caretaker/conservationist had passed on and till a new one was appointed, this was to be my gig.

The quarters were actually a quaint old cottage perched on a clearing near the woods, run down, but the stuff on postcards none the less. The isolated road lead up to a rock wall cottage that had ivy creeping up its walls, with little violet flowers peeping from between. There were hedges and vines and honeysuckles all around. A little dirt path with pebbles led down to the forest at the rear. The windows were rickety and the insides sparse, a tiny stove, two small wooden chairs, a circular table, a not-so-large mattress and that was all. But there was heat and electricity and it was a tired yet happy camper who went to bed that night.

When my eyes opened it was sometime really early, like before daybreak. I was not one of those wake at the crack of down from sheer ingrained habit types, so I knew it was something that had roused me. Suddenly there is a rattling on the windows and I look out to see hundreds (OK maybe a little less) of golden eyes looking in on me. I let out a scream, which I knew was pretty futile. I mean, it’s not like there was another person within screaming distance. The eyes disappeared. I sat there rocking myself, awake, desperately needing to pee, but too terrified to get out of bed. I mean, who knew what lurked under the bed in this crazy place.

Years passed, although my watch showed it as just an hour, and I finally got the courage to get up and go to the bathroom. But as I passed by the window I glanced out. Hanging gracefully from the tree with her unblinking eyes focused on me was a white almost translucent form. A white lady!
That was when I pissed myself.

*

Eventually the sun did come out to disperse the shadows and restore a fraction of my courage and reasoning.
I was a student of science. I did not believe in ghosts and ghouls. I was not a coward who was going to cry spook and give up a very comfortable paying job, especially not when I had spent a part of the salary upfront.
With those words of self-motivation I resolved to venture out into the woods.

Prudence made me stick to the pebbled path which eventually led to a grove of old trees that appeared to encompass what was probably a sink-hole. Curiously enough the area around the grove had been cleared, as if people had frequently walked about.

bathole

There was nothing special about the trees, so logic dictated that it was the sink-hole that attracted visitors. I looked around, picked up a pebble and with great temerity aimed for the opening.

Before I could fathom what was happening, with a great big whooshing sound that seemed to arouse the entire habitat, a furious Swarm of creatures charged out. I was knocked back on my butt and just about managed to curl up in a fetal position with my arms over my face. Around me there was furious wind and storm. What had I unleashed? Would I even survive this? Dang, I was far too young to die.

Eventually the sounds subsided and I meekly uncoiled to look around. It was then that I saw the sign board…

The Bat Cave & Conservation Foundation – Bat Hole No. 2

***

To see The White Lady please click here

Photos Courtesy Monfort Bat Cave & Conservation Foundation

One must see with the heart

tltweek42

She loved the smooth texture of the pillars, the sharp edges, the ins and outs, the recesses just enough for her to fit her body and be a part of the maze, the feel of never ending; while the trapped wind played with her wild tresses and whispered many a tune in her ears. Her feet would glide and slip over the soft moss, ever so often stumbling across a slug or disrupting a march of ants, while her probing fingers entwined with curtains of cobwebs.

Her sisters thought her crazy for spending so many hours in the drab, creepy place, for they had never experienced the corridor as she had; because when you can’t see the colours, you can feel and hear all the hidden beauty.


Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales
photo by Jace Grandinetti via Unsplash

A loss of beautiful

There are many ways to kill a child. One of them is to subdue the defiance in his eyes. Defiance proclaims that ‘I’m alive. I’m a breathing thinking feeling human who doesn’t like to do certain things at certain times in certain ways.’ Isn’t that a good thing? Is that not what we as adults should endeavour to do – groom them into self-sufficient self-reliant decisive thinking adults. Why then do we impose our definitions of right-wrong, good-bad, acceptable-unacceptable, or normal on children?

I had just started volunteering with the kindergarten at the orphanage when I met Zain. Freshly dragged out from a scuffle, his shirt was liberated of its buttons, disheveled hair clung to a dirty muddy crimson face, while a murderous stare emanated from the most beautiful brown eyes. His every pore was buzzing with defiance. It was love at first sight.
But Zain was every warden’s nightmare. He simply would not conform. If he was not in a fight, he was the instigator of fights. And God was he a biter. Ten minutes of my every visit was spent mollifying the victims of his attack. He did not go easy on me either; pulling my clothes, grabbing things out of my purse or mostly squeezing my bottom as a means to humour his hangers-on. At first I would gently reprimand him, but to no avail. Then I started ignoring him. He would just sit in front and stare at me. I mean a ‘I won’t blink an eye, I won’t look away, I hate you daggers’ stare. He was the most disturbingly beautiful sight.
The warden was convinced he had ADHD and wanted to send him to the councilor. I decided to see the councilor first though. And after a long and most helpful session I slowly started changing my strategy with Zain. One on one time really helped and slowly ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘let’s do it together’ started working. Hurrah, we even managed to graduate to grade 1.

And then summer vacation happened.

The boy who came back was less defiant, more subdued, and had a big burn mark on his thigh.
The world had acquired a nice normal boy now. The world had also become a little less beautiful.

What is the Normal?
The Normal is the good smile in a child’s eyes—all right. It is also the dead stare in a million adults. It both sustains and kills—like a God. It is the Ordinary made beautiful; it is also the Average made lethal. The Normal is the indispensable, murderous God of Health, and I am his Priest. My tools are very delicate. My compassion is honest. I have honestly assisted children in this room. I have talked away terrors and relieved many agonies. But also—beyond question—I have cut from them parts of individuality repugnant to his God, in both his aspects. Parts sacred to rarer and more wonderful Gods.
– From ‘Equus’ by Peter Shaffer


Subdued

For my boy

My heart thumps so loudly that it thunders in my ears, as my blood flows with the fury of a tempest. My palms sweat as my body gets hotter and hotter. What have I gotten myself into? An overpowering fear of impending doom makes my muscles tense up. The oxygen is depleted from my lungs and I can breath no more. A jolt and my life flashes before my eyes. And then I’m falling and falling, racing towards imminent death. My stomach has dropped off, my intestines are floating freely about and everything that was inside is about to hurl out. I try to call for help but nothing comes out. It’s too hard to inhale. Somewhere in the distance I hear my son scream my name. My baby needs me. I want to rush to him. I try to get away, but I am trapped. Restraints hold me firmly back, while someone is pulls down on my cheeks, stretching them. My own nails bite into my flesh as I clench my hands so tightly that the blood stops its flow. And then just as suddenly… the silence of the grave.

The shackles disappear. “Out”, I vaguely hear someone say. “Out”. I want to get away before he changes his mind, but my body simply won’t respond. I am weightless and numb. By sheer will I force my feet to move one by one, away from this narrow escape.

Suddenly a little body wrap itself tightly around me. “Mum…O mum”. I will my heart to slow down, my jitters to stop, and my lids to lift. I find myself looking into a pair of the most clear brown twinkling eyes.
“I love you. You are the best”, he says. I hug him back. My beautiful boy.
I smile and acknowledge to myself – I’ll ride that crazy roller coaster a hundred times, just to see that Twinkle in his eyes.