Sights of Venice
The faint blue skies of Venice spectated the serene setting of the majestic canal, gently swaying like the gondoliers of the sightseeing travellers from across the world. Leaning over his veranda, the merchant overlooked this heavenly realm. Quaint townhouses and narrow buildings overlooked the sightseers calmly rowing the oblong wooden boats. The smooth, warm texture of the beige stone of the terrace faintly rubbed against the palm of his hand. Birds chirped jovially in unison with the tender breeze, and the soothing ripples of water. The distinct smell of fresh and clear air filled his nose.
A mirage had formed in the past hours as the night took its inevitable place of slumber, and dawn arose. In their reverie, the surreal spectrum of colours was miraculously transforming from a very weak blue to a glowing, vibrant, orange in the depths of the expansive river. The ravishing cathedral, emerging from the red-roofed row of buildings, bloomed as the tremendous dome, brandishing its klieg reflection of the sunlight, looked up at its forefathers.
Caressing both the bed of submerged pebbles, and the gondolas rocking with the tender breeze on the boundless blanket of transparent water. Rivers of Venice were another pilgrimage for some, the contact with the impossible waters almost a cleansing of the mind.
The gondoliers looked around at their beautiful surroundings, wearing short, fabric robes and detached hoods. Like the tip of a meringue, the end of the gondolas embowed upwards, sweetly swirling fantastically to its own tip, as the boats soothingly streamed through the passive waters.
Picturesque. The brick roofs of the overlooking buildings resembled the grand thought of a chimera. Perfect. Flawless. Astounding. The frictious cream coloured stone of the houses, and the tiles, all painstakingly laid by angels descending to view this heavenly sight.
A Trip To The Supermarket
Entering the newly constructed supermarket, the 37-year-old stay-at-home husband stared at the grocery list, determined to return home and watch the rugby match as soon as possible. As he walked down the vegetable aisle, he hunted with complete focus for green peppers. He had now gone past broccoli, jalapenos, green peppers, and cabbage. They were nowhere to be found. He crossed them off the list. Next up was sesame seed bread, thus he walked down the bakery aisle. They must be there thought the man. After all, bread was supposed to be baked. He spotted a good-looking loaf of bread, but he could not see any seeds on it, and it was quite small, although it did have small, brown seed-like shapes on either side of it. It was titled, ‘Pain au Chocolat.’ From his secondary school studying of basic French, he could decipher that that must have been some bizarre French phrasing for seeded bread. He understood that ‘pain’ meant ‘bread’ and the rest meant seed. He grabbed five of them, placing the steel tongues back into his pocket.
After a rather swift hour or so at the supermarket, he was ready to leave. In the basket, he had the seeded bread, and nothing else. What was he supposed to do if the groceries were not at the grocery store? Nothing, he replied. As he strolled back down the vegetable aisle, he passed the broccoli, jalapenos, green peppers, and cabbage.
He was about to, and almost keen to leave, and was passing through the metal detector, when he heard a loud buzz ringing into his ears like a klaxon. One of the security guards dutifully paced over, towering over him by at least a whole foot or two. Surprisingly charismatically, the guard explained that he needed to search the man for stolen items or weapons. A quick pat-down was executed, and the man waited impatiently to leave.
‘I have a football match to get to!’ He muttered through his gritting teeth.
He was starting to get irritated by the lengthy process of simply going to the supermarket. The guard was about to complete searching his track pants when he stopped at his pocket. He looked up at me with a threatening frown.
‘What’s wrong?’ I questioned.
The giant ripped a pair of tongues out of my pocket and thrusted them in front of my face. Another guard grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me out of the store, still following.
After ten minutes, according to my G-Shock, a siren came into earshot. A police siren. A ford focus with chequered yellow and blue squares stopped in front of me. A policewoman exited the car, handcuffs in hand. I could not believe it. Finalising the absurd situation, she stated,
‘You’re under arrest sir, for shoplifting that is.’
The Comedy of Errors
As the door hit its cue to slam, which it did not, as it had been wedged open by some mould for the past three weeks, I felt my inside pocket for my money and my, or should I say, my landlord’s, letter opener. You could never be sure in London, could you? I knew the route to the theatre like the gritty texture of my bedsheets. Ever so familiar. What could I say, ever since my first day of redundancy the four o’clock play is my only recurring plan for each and every three hundred and sixty five days of the year. If told me the name of a Shakespeare play, I could probably recite at least half of the script, don’t you think? I better get going or otherwise I will be late, it’s already ten in the morning.
The unkept walkway of the road adapted to my very footstep. Grainy dirt seeped through the hole in my right shoe like sand between fingers. As I neared Bishop’s Gate, the chariots of the rich came into view. The overwhelmingly serious chauffeur, the lavish velvet lining of the hooded chariot, the teacups. All of it was textbook inheritance wealth. There were two halves. The rich and the poor, and I was in the middle. That still does not mean I could afford to pay my rent. In fact, I was supposed to be evicted tomorrow. From then on, the soil would be my pillow. The musty air of the smoky skies would be my oxygen, and the very streets of London would be mine to roam. The grandest estate of them all. What a time to be alive.
A few boys sat leaning on a shop window, eyeing me. Of course they were. The glint of poverty dwelling in the depth of their eyes. They were envious, and envy only matures through age. One took of their jacket, strands of the fabric flaked out of the collar. For heavens sake the jacket sagged down to his knees. Of course it wasn’t his. The boy with the jacket approached me, but stayed out of at least a five meter proximity. He reached out one of his shivering fingers, the caked dirt luminous under his overgrown fingernails, and called for me. And what did I do, oh silly me. I followed.
“Give us all you’ve got!” Another seethed, whilst simultaneously attempting to knock a grown man down to the floor. I could not take them seriously. He was practically stroking me. I laughed. The faint chuckle transformed into a loud cackle. The boy stepped backward.
“What’s so funny to you?”
I just continued to laugh and laugh. I could barely even breathe, hardly noticing the gang of three boys beating me to the ground and stealing all my thirteen pennies. I lay on the floor, continuing to giggle like a toddler. Like I cared. I was going to the theatre!
And there it was. The majestic Globe Theatre. I reached for my pocket, and withdrew my one penny. As I placed it in the wooden planked bucket, I realised it was just a pebble. Never mind. I was at the theatre! I prepared for the action, and there it was, welcoming me like my very own family. The crowd of groundlings moving as one as if they were soldered together. It was eleven past four. The play had just begun. Romeo and Juliet, read the banner. A new one. Another one to learn off by heart. I embraced the homeless men around me like my own brethren. I embraced the spittle of the wealthier from above. I embraced my surroundings because that was who I was. What a time to be alive.
The Rabbit Hole
Walking with certainty
Walking with confidence
Walking but tripping
Into an unknown abyss
Surreal, it may be
But it will so worsen
The flaw in a mere step
The flaw in a person
The hefty cost of being trapped
Deep, Deep, Down
In the uncharted realm
Otherwise known as
The Rabbit Hole
This is a repost for a challenge FYI
A World Without Competition
Impossible
Unimaginable
Competition is the very matter
Of the current world where we live
Without competition
Anarchy
No leaders, no guidance
Money doesn't exist
No shops
No groceries
No smartphones
How could I even write this?
Although you don't realise it
Competition is everything in this modern day
You just have to be a good competitor
Land of The Free
'Land of The Free' they call it
Not so much anymore
An unstable structure
With cracks down the core
A punctured bicycle wheel
You can pump it back up
All you can do
Is cover it up with some duct tape
Which will eventually fall of
From bad weather or a mere scrape
It is scarred as we know it
And for many years to come
No new president
Will truly find another wheel
It is up to the people
To do their part
And the governments role
To guide them
And eventually
A pristine bike will emerge
And the opressed country
Will once more
Become the Land of The Free
Darkness
An object of presumed fear
Though it goes unnoticed
The late nights until 3am
The deep sleep after a long day's work
Even the back of a cupboard
These are darkness
Yet not frightening
As far as you know
The uncanny of it all
Leaves you sitting upright in your bed
Afraid to turn your eyes away from the creaked open door
Who is there?
You ask
Nothing but darkness
The entity who watches you more than your family
Monitoring
Stalking
Seeing
However protected you feel
The cold breath on the back of your neck
The twitching of your door
The Movement from outside
Darkness,
Is present
The End
He's gone, they say
But you don't believe them
Though for once, you are wrong
Too early, he left
Too short, it was
You wish he could see you now
His last days, in Intensive Care
His last words, nothing special
Death is not like in a book
Not finalizing
Nor a goodbye
But perhaps the most abrupt ending of the-