27 April 2010

Treasure Chest

I built a treasure chest. With gold frills and jewel pieces. I laced the chest with silver coils, shaping danger signs barring curious explorers from opening it. Inside it I put an Egyptian ankh, the toe of the first homo erectus man. Over the years I found more great wonders, like the diary of Amelia Earhart, the Bermuda Triangle's secret. I put it all in this treasure chest of mine, and said, the day will come, when one will dare open this chest.

I have to admit the exterior wasn't as strong as it was misleading. I threw the magic hair dust of a pixie that left a packet under the pillow when I lost my first tooth. Some would see, instead of a beautiful chest a dirty sack of socks. Others would see a dining table, and apart from inquiring why on earth it was placed in the middle of a bedroom, they would not give it a second look. Still more came and saw a hardened wooden chastity chest, but there was one that commented that the box looked like a diamond in the rough.

I delighted at the observations at first, because I knew what I had in the chest. I could see through the pixie dust. Then I lost sight of the shine on gold, and soon the coil looked weathered and weak. The gems were dusty and the box lost it's lustre. So one day when the man came over for dinner, and chanced upon the chest, I thought he was crazy.

The man said, he saw a chest. He wondered what treasures it had, and I called him a fruitcake and delusional. He laughed, not taking offence and said he wanted to open it. I told him to go ahead, and I was proven right. The ankh was stuck together with lollypop sticks, and the Bermuda's secrets were snippets from an old paper describing it. The toe of the first human man was nothing but a dirty acorn, decomposing happily in the warmth of the air from the years gone.

But the diary was of mine. Of a girl with imagination that would astound Enid Blyton. There were drawings inside it that probably meant something, in the mind of the artist aged eight. But they didn't make sense now. It was a dirty old box, gathering dust in the corner of a bedroom that was no longer used.

That night, in the dark, I looked at the chest that had so much hope. Not hope for the world but for a future and a life so beautiful and in sync. I did not know when I had lost sight of the chest and try as I may I could not see it as it was. I panicked and threw it out of the window. How could I not see it, when it belonged to me?

13 April 2010

Your Heart

A dusty summer afternoon, in the bustle of the city, there stood a girl on the side of the street holding a bunch of roses. "Would you want to buy one for your girlfriend Sir?" she wanted to know.
The Sir threw his hand out in exasperation and yelled back at her, asking her to leave them alone. The girlfriend was indifferent, she pulled her sunshades down and pursed her lips together. It was hot, and The Sir was making her walk this crowded street for a bloody burger.

They passed the insignificant girl, small and bright eyed. She probably wasn't older than seven, had her hair up in a ponytail, browned by the days in the sun, rough and ruly from the nights of hunger. She put on a smile and her best
innocent face, and walked up to a different pedestrian. With this one, she had no response. She got a sharp shove aside.

Her balance lost, she teetered over the side of the pavement and dangled dangerously close to the traffic. She lost her footing and landed face down onto the ground. Though she was not alone, she was too insignificant to be noticed by the crowd around her.She rolled to her side, to catch a moment's breath before checking on her wound.

Further ahead a scene had erupted. It was the girlfriend and The Sir, something had happened. She was aware of sticky liquid that was sliding down the side of her face, but she couldn't move. From the ground, she was able to see better, as several feet ran towards the scene. Something had happened.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she stands up and walks still not in balance, to the crowd. She pries her way through the crowd, to investigate. It was The Sir, he had white foam all over his mouth. The girlfriend looked on helplessly, tears rolling down her eyes. Her make up had smudged, her snootiness gone. She stood alone, shivering in fear.

The Sir did not move. And he did not open his eyes. Not even when the Ambulance came, many minutes later. Somebody in the crowd said he'd passed away. Epillepi or was it Epilepsy. The girlfriend stood giving statements of what had happened, she was juggling phone calls across two phones. The girl had by then forgotten her wound, and stepped forward towards the woman.

She picked out a rose from her bunch, slightly crushed. Walking with a slight lilt, she wipes her hand clean on her skirt, and extends the rose to the girlfriend, who's surprised. She looks like she would take offense at the gesture, so the girl quickly adds, "Sir wanted you to have it".

With that the child turns around, and walks to the unknown world of danger and despicable treatment. When they give us so much, with so little. What's stopping you from giving a little more?