The Roach

Behold! The first roach of spring.
Its carapace, stilled
on dank brown soil.
The sun browning its belly.
Spiny legs curled.
And ghost limbs stretching,
from its carcass.
Digging,
into the earth.
The roach,
cold in their mouths.
A prayer of chitin
for their kin.

outside, the city slept

Outside on the balcony, he could hear the city sleeping. Tall trees, poplars he thought, momentarily angered that he didn’t know their names, concealed the redbrick exoskeleton of a residential dwelling, allowing only minute glints of florescence to filter through their black foliage. He trembled unconsciously from the cold as he removed a wrinkled pouch of tobacco from the pocket of his jacket. He placed a few thick strands on a piece of rice paper and rolled it between his fingers. Once he had achieved the desired symmetry he extracted a filter from the pouch and placed it at the end of the cigarette and wrapped the paper over it once, twice with swift movements of his fingers. He ran his tongue briefly over the adhesive strip, carefully sealing the cigarette. Putting it in his mouth, he glanced upwards at thickening clouds, which had acquired a phantasmal luminescence from the lights of the distant city. He lit his cigarette, inhaling sharply the sweet smoke, shivering as much from the strangeness of his existence in that alien world as from the bite of the wind on his throat.

Occasionally the silence would be broken by the rumble of an electric train ferrying its cargo of travellers. And upon straining his ears he perceived other sounds. A thud-thudding that was not his heart. Sudden rustlings of leaves as unseen inhabitants of the trees shifted in slumber. He made his way to the edge of the balcony, put his hands on the icy metal railing and glanced down at a stretch of cobbled pathway that snaked a few yards through the “poplars” and ferns before disappearing into the darkness. He stood puffing away mutely, his thoughts wrapped around himself.

Then, from the periphery of his vision, he discerned a movement and quickly stubbed out his cigarette. But his caution was in vain; in a brightly illuminated spot below stood a pale, uniformed figure whose gaze seemed to be directed towards him. A sliver of light reflected off its insignia caught his eye, blinding him with wild coruscations of gold and silver. He staggered into his small rented room, tears cascading down his cheeks. He fumbled for the handle of the bathroom door, twisted it open and fell weeping into the shower stall, the glints of silvergold still bright in his eyes. He reached for the shower handle, turning it until the water slapped him coldly in the face.

...........................

Three young men played on a frozen meadow. Leaping, running, stumbling, swinging fistfuls of snow at one another. He could hear their laughter even inside the car. He reached inside his pocket for his pouch and rolled himself a cigarette. Putting it into his mouth, he adjusted the rear-view mirror. In the backseat sat the uniformed figure.

“Look”

He saw one of the men reach inside his jacket.

“Look”

There, running out of a grove of trees that lined the meadow’s west, a golden haired girl and an old woman. The man, who stood by the cooling carcasses of his friends took aim.

"NO"

He sputtered, and ran to the sink and began vigorously to rinse his face. Then, he straightened and looked at himself in the cracked mirror of the medicine cabinet. But in its manifold reflections he found the old woman and the golden haired child. He screamed.

There was a knock on the door, followed by a moment of silence. Then the knocking resumed with growing intensity. Finally, the door was flung open and a uniformed figure marched in with trays delicately balanced on either arm. It stood at his feet as he lay trembling in a heap on the floor and offered a smile.

“Breakfast, sir?”

a house and a woman

There was once a house on a tiny island whose sole human inhabitant was a young woman. It was a small house made of coral and driftwood. The sea was only a few yards from its doorstep when the tide was out. Sometimes, when the house was submerged at high tide, it would come alive in a kaleidoscopic explosion of tentacles that swayed in rhythm with the currents. It was a sight more magnificent than anything most people saw in their lifetime.

The weather was mostly tempestuous around the island and the young woman mostly stayed in. On rare sunlit afternoons, she would emerge from her dwelling; her slender body covered in layers of velvety moss. She would go to the water’s edge and, with a piece of coral, begin to scrape the moss from her body. And slowly, the dull green would give way to skin white as sand. Then, with a toss of her sandy head, she would go about gathering driftwood.

On a particularly dismal afternoon, the woman stood by her little window, watching the sea being whipped into a mad froth by the wind. She spotted a ship braving the storm in the distance. Columns of water rose around the vessel and toppled onto it like crumbling masonry.

There might be company this evening, she thought. Perhaps a good sailor or two. Her heart gave a tiny flutter. She moved away from the window and opened the door. Water lapped at her feet while she stood on the doorstep. Soon, the island, the house, and herself would be under water. And within a tangle of iridescent limbs, she would wait for her guests to arrive.