Monday, 30 January 2017
The boy with wax melting from his ears, and thick viscous yellowness hanging from his nose, that he would momentarily snuffle back up into the shadows of his nostrils.
Everyone thought he was a retarded silly, except, the woman that bore him, who held his hand each morning, walking him to school.
One day, everything changed. A priest, in a white long, ground-sweeping gown and a collar, stood before the town men, women and children. A 'Holy Book' on one hand and a lump of soil on the other. Under the shadow of a dark gloomy cloud, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." his throat spluttered, with bits of shreds of hidden joy.
When they finally impaled a cross on the soil that peacefully concealed little Billy's body underneath, and no flowers laid on, they went home perhaps happy from being relieved of the anchor-heavy burden, the little boy had imposed on them. They were finally happy. They'd no longer have to warn their kids of playing with poor Billy or having to deal with his poor hungry stares anymore!
They walked away with smiles in their hearts, disguised as gloomy, mourning faces, as skies broke loose. Only Billy's mother knew of the endless depths and the hollowness left behind by his son's death. She would wake up the next day with nobody's hand to hold and no one to walk to school.
To the man who took his life, he was just a careless boy, who wasn't keen enough while crossing the road, from school.
"It was an accident that I hit him..." He'd lightly and carelessly remark.
The next morning, he tucked his legs under a well-polished executive desk, with a newspaper and a small rectangular wooden piece on his desk, that read, "The Mayor".
Gone are the days that you'd rest your head on my chest and smell the scent of my ripe goosebumps, those days that I would lose count o...
I will take you to the Atlantic coast in, Virginia, Will you be my 'Puella' my sweet, sweet Latina? Ride on the sand in a cherry...
He knocked on the door, but unlike usual, there was no response. No eager answer served on hugs and kisses that night like it has always be...
A picture in my hands, s lightly over two decades old . A baby tightly calm, in arms, m y eyes grow wet and cold . A tear splashes, on...