For Want Of A Better World

I woke up this morning, and realised, the romance in me had died, sometime in the night. It was a peaceful demise, Like a death from starvation, disease, old age, Just wasting away behind the scenes, without a fight. I am no longer the ashes on my pillow, Just memories moving through a murky past, The sinews of my being move me to look away from the remains, Afraid to know if it was an end he deserved, But I think he would have liked that. I move on with my being, Taking pleasure from what is here and now, A cold drop of water pleases more my shoulder, Than the scribblings of a mind, fevered, With visions beyond mankind, With sweat on his brow. The bed lies empty as I come back, The room frozen in a wanton sigh, I clasp the folds of the blanket, afraid, Of a shroud debased by my existence, To lay down my head, and cry.

(The Scene: An evening in a regular London pub. The bar isn’t crowded, there are only two couples in the booths. Two men at the bar, friends by the look of it. One drinking a pint of dark beer) Man 1 : So Lucy called. Said she was gonna pack all of her stuff and head back to her mum’s. Her life’s too precious to spend livin’ with a waster, she says. Man 2 : All her stuff? Well that’s okay, then. Give her a couple of days’ head start to get her suitcases sorted before you go apologizing. Man 1 : (Chuckles)  Nah, she’ll come around sooner than that. She’s not a bad bird, that one. Think I may actually settle down with her. Man 2 : Yeah? Man 1 : Yeah, yeah, y’know… it’s not a bad idea, really. I mean, I could always quit this job and find one that pays more. She won’t half mind marrying me, I know that. Yeah… maybe I could just get this bird for keepers. Man 2 : Pays more, eh? And where exactly do you propose to find such gainful employment, old boy? Man...

It was all going perfectly according to plan. The world was at peace, the beings in harmony, one part eating the other, and the other sacrificing itself to sustain the first. Green and brown above, blue and grey below. It worked, it sustained what could have gone on for eons. Why, then, did nature create man? Suddenly, in what was practically a flash in the billions of years of the DNA code, there was this, thing , that was fast, strong, and hungry beyond fulfillment. Hacking, and burning, and digging and scraping apart all that was there until its subjugation of all around it was complete. Until the very mother that caused him to be wept tears of acid and blew away its tattered covers to sear him with the sun’s rays. What was this grand scheme that caused nature to make something that would think up a power greater than itself to dominate and torture that which gave birth to him so completely? And when there was no other to be ravished, turn on each other in a noisy bicker...

The Scene: Midnight, in an empty bar. Shelves in the back, replete with exquisite liquor, their colour reflected from a long mirror above, running along the length of the bar counter, its wood burnished a dull gold with the light above. Man and Woman, alone, together, close, their drinks in front of them (Scotch for Him, Daiquiri for Her). French windows behind them show nothing but a full moon in the distance. No one else around. Woman: (contemplative, staring at her glass) Tragedy never strikes when one is in the throes of sorrow. It has a knack for picking the sweetest, happiest moments to descend and skewer a heart. Is it life’s way of being merciful to man in his sorrow, or painful in his joy? (To Him, smiling) I absolutely loved our day together; it was all I ever wished for; in fact, much more. And yet... Man: I did what I did because I wanted to. I love you, and a day in your life spent happy is a day in mine fulfilled. (Aloud, to no one) Our choices are all made long ago, ...

It all started with a gust of cold wind and the rain. The rain was a sign. It was a true sign of things that had been and things as they would be; soon. The rain had barely ceased when a series of spikes starting running the length of the land, over and over again; as if Atlas himself was trying to find a soft spot in order to impale the very globe he had been carrying for years now. All this time the Berber was circling the area, searching for the right spot to begin his evil operation. An unknowing descendant of the North African tribe, this man was more a ZooZoo than a Zizou. Finding the spot in the rear, he started with a cursory inspection, gauging the length of the stalk. It is time I mention where he was. The story is set in a lush field somewhere far, far away. In the field lie millions of tall plants. Make no mistake, these aren’t any redwoods, but they’re longer than your average sapling. This land of beautiful, black fauna was meticulously grown by the Farmer, who spent day ...