“They should be shot!” he cried. “We should reinstate capital punishment. Public hangings!” He is paranoid, concerned about loss of personal wealth, the innocence of young women he has never met. He rants and raves about injustice and corruption while he imagines the weight of a gun in his hand instead of the phone receiver. He envisions himself as justice incarnate. With musculature cut from stone and the strength of a superhero. If he had friends, would they be surprised to know that he was responsible for the string of murders of homeless men in deserted city parks?
Humming sounds, lamp light, keyboard click-clacking; these are the late night companions of the insomniac. Deep into the night, sleep deprived minds still abuzz with ideas (shouldn’t have had that latte with two shots of espresso). Enough energy to power the humming appliances, the lamps, the laptop, the street lights, the neighbor’s house, a small town – a hamlet? Would that we could channel this seemingly endless supply of energy into electricity – certainly the future in green technology lies within the busy brains of the all night, sleepless thinkers, the dreamers who cannot sleep to dream. Plug us in.
Extra Special Add-on: Haiku!
O, elusive sleep
How bad insomnia is:
Late night haiku bad.
I’ve never had faith in many things. Not in a higher power. Not in other people. Not in myself. But gravity, that is something one can’t help but believe in. Ring around the rosies, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
Falling head over heels wasn’t something I included in my pondering of gravity, it wasn’t something I expected at all.
Love is heavy. And the loss of love, that really knocks you on the ground. I never imagined that it would take all my strength to actually pick myself up off the floor once you left.
“Easy as pie,” she said as she measured out the ingredients exactly and prepared the cutting board to roll out the dough. She powdered the board with flour and flattened the dough to an even thickness, not tampering with the dough too much, for fear of a poor consistency. Making pie isn’t that easy. My mom once forgot the sugar in a lemon pie. It was ruined. Falling in love was far easier than making any pie, but saying those three words – that might have been at the same level as baking a pie. Or maybe a little harder.
Colored light formed kaleidoscope projections on her upturned face. It was nearing sunset and the stained glass windows glowed. Silence filled the empty church and, she imagined, spilled out onto the streets – passers by with mouths moving but no sound, voices all cowering at the might of God.
‘This is the one pure love.’ she thought, her emaciated frame settled uncomfortably on the wooden pews. The silence was broken by voices and thudding footsteps, her family back again to take her away.
“Darling,” her mother cooed, “you must come home now.” They know nothing of love, she condemned.
The ‘missing’ posters were on every bulletin board. A photo of him and his dad smiling, a description of him. A week or so later the paper ran a nostalgic article about the young man and his accomplishments, hobbies, his happiness and love of life.
I imagined flying with him in his floatplane. We’d land at some remote island off the coast with nothing but trees and rocks, watch a sunset, stare into each other’s eyes. He would warm my ice cold hands, calm my shivers with his presence.
But his hands are cold. Why can’t I love the living?
Within a brief period of time I wrote THREE little works of fiction within the one theme and must admit that I am officially in LOVE with DRABBLE. So much so, that I will create a new creative blog for DRABBLING. I think that I will post drabble here weekly.
I think I’ll try to choose a new theme or keyword each week and if anyone ever reads this drabble-rousing blog, I will accept suggestions or prompts for themes.