Thursday, 30 June 2011

You'll be Alright

She is always deemed a mute girl. Her uneventful reticence raises eyebrows. It is actually she who raises eyebrows first when being interrogated of her quietude, and living up to her label she offers no reply. That quietude was more of a latent idiosyncrasy than a natural inclination, for she used to ramble like any of you. The picture is still vivid in retrospect of how she rambled: angels with velvet wings lilting puckishly on streams of innocent words. Presumably too innocent those words that they immediately provoked the Authoritative. An offhand decision was made from the Authoritative, and the grave quietude descended.

Supposedly the aforementioned is too embellished a paragraph. She promises to whittle down any surplus of her story for sake of concision. Concision denotes dead silence. The night is shrouded in velveteen silence as she ponders about. Plans roll out of gestation and into the embryonic stage of action as she ponders. A spectre she is made by those malicious flesh who wronged. A quiet night belies a trembling disquiet fear. The disquiet city will be anticipating a split of the sky, a drum of the startle. Years of suppressed anger wobbles under the thin layer of the brim.

Now the ghost walks. The destination she walks to the vengeance where is to be executed. The vengeance ferments longer than the action. The action on the spur of the unpurified indignation. The indignation makes shine of her weapon. Under the intruding moonlight she studies her weapon with frowned contemplation. Contemplates not of the decisive action she will be taken but of the gilded beauty of her weapon. The sight reminds her the long-lost angels who used to lilt in her dream.

A turn of a corner and a few flights of stairs she is standing stock-still staring at the target of her vengeance. The vengeance no longer seems meaningfully urgent since she is now staring at the sight in awe. In awe she stares at a bundle of wrinkled package. Something quivers under that package, beneath a thinly-wrapped linen. The cave and the concave of the curve dance after every quiver. Again the sight brings back memory of the lilting angels. The angels she has missed which are now dancing on the wrinkled linen. Enticed by the sight she drops her weapon and sweeps out what is on her mind.

Galvanized by a sudden pang the person jerks up from under the linen. Hushing the dumbfounded one she leads the person gently back to bed as if in hypnotism. Despite the muffled shriek coming from under the linen she tucks in the tumbling figure. “You'll be alright now,” the broken of the protracted silence.

Thursday, 2 June 2011

I Can't Go Back Home

All attention now turn to a shrouded figure on the flee. An escapee he is not, nor is he a bustling commuter. Night is impossible to bear such muted tone. All the hurly-burly seems to be swept away without mercy. A swirling smoke of dusts he incites in the wake of his hobbling pace. Beware! Night murmurs to itself as the smoke uncontrollably swerves up. Disquiet lurks threateningly in, the murky smoke slowly gnaws.

No music and not a sound are heard. Imagination sets flames on them. Alive, the music yawns itself alive from below. Like the residue of a closed bakery, smouldering melodies emit from below his mud-scattered boots, from below the pulsated earth; the flagrance of music wafts. A mirage he illusions of seeing: little girl dancing under a ring of light in pleated-skirt. Her movement coheres with the arpeggio taps. All perked-up dynamics ironed somewhat at the end of every four bars, in which a slight squeak of the girl’s ballet shoes is audible. Under the conspicuous spotlight a bizarre bronze resemblance vibrates on the skin of the little dancer. The hair is in comparison a stack of straw-yellow, sprawling desultorily about her shoulders mingled with sweats. Her dancing is somewhat ungainly, signified by those pervasive blue veins threaten to burst. He reawakes from temporary halt.

Proceeding on he picks up a newspaper skidding along the empty street from hither to thither. The story of a murder predominates the whole page. Night veils the city but she was one of the many who is still sober from the darkness. A glass of wine on one hand and a scintillating knife on the other she judges with unperturbed curiosity. The serenity of the night everybody wants to galvanize; a palpable revenge she has yet to feel. A startling laughter she tries to stifle. She lets her face fits into the tunnel-version on that of the well-polished hilt; she looks comically timorous.

Later she insists that the murder is unpremeditated. The night is simply too long; too stifling. The cabaret outside her window ceases not of their frolic. They sing, dance or pump noises until beads of sweats creep upon their already soggy shirts. She feels beads of sweats too, above her back. And no, she shakes her head in denial, no reasons can be proffered for her murderous action. A reason which is still in stammering gestation in her soporific head.

Another he appears on the wall, coyly inviting him for an eventful shadow-boxing. He baffles and halts his brisk gait. From the very far horizon of the infinite, he hears, some tentative sounds rumbling on. Remember those days from yesterday, the street sways before him like a sultry hot day. Those sounds in fragments will soon amass into a trooping sea beast. Hands it will extend toward him to draw. Before long like the noiseless city he will become, a skeleton that aches.

“I can’t go back home.” He rushes away leaving the night in the wake.