Time was running out of his hand! He clenched his fist tighter. The time moved a bit more slowly.
He will never make it, he thought. Not alone. He shouldn't have killed the others. They could have helped him get through this last part.
He started digging again, one grave more than the corpses around.
No. 9 - Attempting poetry
Every time I look around the walls close in a little tighter.
Every time I breathe the air seems a bit lighter.
Every time I open my mouth, only silence comes out.
Every time I try to sleep, I hear a muffled shout.
Every time I close my eyes, the white light seems slightly whiter.
In the beginning there was complete order. Then someone fired a bullet.
The second day was pure mayhem.
On the third day, it rained. It washed away the blood off the streets, and the Special Forces cleared the bodies.
By the morning of the fourth, the chaos had subsided, and anarchy was all that remained.
She loved the setting sun, she said. He said he couldn’t care less. She was hurt, which was pretty much the response he desired. He wanted to break up with her anyway.
“Its good you love something you know wouldn’t last.”
“It’s just that it will come around again tomorrow.”
They got married last Sunday.
Irritated, he brushed yet another insect off his coat and tried to feel more romantic. She was too plain. He surveyed her in entirety - wondering what made him love her. Eyes? Hair? Lips? That mole on the chin?
She brushed a bug off the hem of her skirt. He fell in love all over again!
"Hi, this is Jack."
"Hey Jack, what's up?"
"Jim, listen, nothing great will happen to you before you sleep tonight."
"Ya, and please call ten more people and tell them the same thing."
"What do you...?"
"Jim, this really works! Nothing happened to me too! Try it! And meanwhile..."
"Stop spamming me !!!"
The room was too small: he felt like Jack-in-a-box
. The real estate prices were going through the roof in this big city he found himself in. Big city with no space.
He felt the walls were getting together to plot his death. He opened the window.
The polluted air filled the room, full of promise.
He was perplexed. How could he screw up this one? He rechecked for the umpteenth time. No good. What was he going to do? He measured his options. He could tell her and apologise, or he could confront her and pretend it was her fault. God, how could he marry such an awfully ugly girl?
It started with just one casual flick of his left hand. This was his last experiment. With this he would prove beyond all doubt that the human mind could accomplish anything just by the merest thought. A vague idea took shape in his mind.
He was dead before his last cigarette stub hit the ground.
His love was the purest, just like that of all who ever loved. But open admission was too coarse an act - he chose not to go further than subtle hints. But how subtle was subtle enough, and how subtle too subtle?
He would be fine. He believed getting the one you loved was too lame.