Child

"My child, my child, don't run so far.
And not so fast.
And not so happily-
Surely I'm not that awful?
Surely you're not so glad to be getting away?
Or maybe I'm just not so important.
Maybe the leaves, and the trees,
And the summer's day,
And the kids chattering away, dangling off the jungle gym,
Are more interesting, inviting, attractive.
Alright, I understand.
Go then.
Go on, have a good time.
I'll be sitting here, waiting for you.
I guess I should have remembered that you'd want to play.
That you wouldn't just want to take a walk.
I should have brought a book.
Never mind.
I'll sit and watch the day that so entrances you.
Then when you're done, and it's dark, and we're going home,
We can talk about it awhile.
Atleast it's a change from the house...
Well, go on, then.
I'll wait here for you.
Come, when you're done.
I'll enjoy the day till then.
And when, in an hour, Aunty goes this way, on her evening walk, I'll waylay her.
And then I can talk to her for a bit.
She won't mind, I'm sure.
That'll pass some time.
Enough, I'm thinking aloud.
And you, silly child, are standing here and listening to me.
Run along and play, before all the time is gone."
The child looked at her, her head cocked, her eyes wide.
And then she turned and went.

'Once upon a time there was a sonuvabitch,

a sonuvabitch,

a sonuvabitch,

a sonuvabitch.

Dood ya, he was one helluva sonuvabitch.'

With a resounding click

the final full stop struck.

The chair screeched,

The curtains flung open,

the moon floodlit the room.

The wind drifted in through the half-open window,

lazily tinkled the chandelier crystals,

stole the page atop the pile,

and dashed out again.

Paperweight in place,

Now,

she said, ironic,

I must begin again.

writing

The pen paused, making a circular blot which grew and grew, until it was a story in itself. Then suddenly, the nib took off, scratching across the page, a furious scribble. There was ink on the fingers too. Then the girl stopped, lifted the pen off, and looked thoughtfully at the scrawl. When she touched it to the page again, her handwriting had changed, and neat blue marks appeared out of nowhere that followed the rules of lines, and margins and page-after-page. Only the thoughts were not orderly anymore- in her crawling hurry, they all came out higgledy-piggledy, too much of this and too little of that, and the wrong order to things.
She stopped after a laboured page, and looked at it. Beautiful, clean. Neat, clear marks in sapphire blue, all down the page. Then she read it. Then she tore it up.