The Windowsill

A stranger on the street asked me for the time, so I pulled out my phone. Blood began dripping down my fingers, seeping out from the inner circuit boards, I suppose.

I licked my finger tips and smiled, “Sorry, my phone’s dead”.

It didn’t move at all and just kind of hung upside down, like it wasn’t anywhere, just kind of there.

Sometimes I imagine having pride, dignity, integrity, and the likes, but then I always remember that bloody lips and being me is cuter and more attractive. Somehow it seems to focus everything into perspective more.

I noticed a pin-wheel spinning on the windowsill, outside a flower shop. It didn’t make a sound, but I knew that if I went inside it would.

Colours flickered in the air and went fuzzy, then disappeared, only to reappear sometime later. Now if only I could make it dripping wet, and red, like my dead painting at home, bleeding on the floor.

But I could, and I did, and soon it was, several screams later. Not to worry, the old lady in the flower shop was well overdue, trust me.

She was telling me about how she’ll soon be 100 years old, and attributed her youthful look to olive oil. Perhaps, yes, but, most likely, noーfrom her appearance you would have thought she was at least 200, give or take.

I dare say adults these days have no idea what they’re talking about. It’s the experiences that delude them, yet, they’ll say it makes them all the wiser. It really depends on how you interpret the images and textures, the figments, I guess.

Everything is as you want it to be. Really, you wish it to be, and poof, there it is, and maybe it isn’t. Oops, it’s gone.

I sat there looking out into the orange hazy day, spinning the pinwheel in circles. I hadn’t yet decided what to do with Ms Olive Oil, when suddenly a customer arrived,

“Oh dear lord! Is Miss Withers okay?”.

I came out smiling after licking my fingers, “She’s not sleeping, not to worry. You’ll meet her soon”.

Upon seeing my stained clothes, his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree and focused directly on me. “It’s just chocolate, not to worry”, I told him.

I was touching myself, a portrait of something else, blanking out the true images. He forgot all about the old lady and came at me.

I returned to the pinwheel, a short while later. It’s so difficult to decide what to do with these lives. So many choices, and such little time. Should I put them in the closet? Bury them? Sell them to the butcher? Oh what should I do?!

Time isn’t something you catch. It’s not a fish, but it’s something you can make, and create.

It’ll stretch on and on if you make the right choices, but who knows where those are, and if you can even imagine them. I know I certainly can’t.

I was blowing on the pinwheel now, faster and faster it went spinning, blood squirting and spilling. It went from two, to three, and then suddenly shot off to infinity.

Up in the hanging stars. This is the stuff dreams are made of. I stopped at the windowsill for a moment, and smiled back at Miss Withers and Mr Giggles.

I lied. Yeah, I’m a joker. They were still there, conversing and sharing feelings. I’m obsessed with liquids, but I much prefer watching others take breaths, or gasp frantically, at least. She’s a youthful old broom, and he a character.

The shop was now behind me, lost in the shadows, blurring into the past, the stars dangling on strings, scissors in my hands.

I was wondering about things, kinda lost, when suddenly a cute, messy, little stranger appeared on the street. He asked me for the time, so I pulled out my phone.
Blood began dripping down my fingers, seeping out from the inner circuit boards.

I licked my finger tips and smiled, “Oops, it’s dead”.

It didn’t move at all and just kind of hung upside down, like it wasn’t anywhere, just kind of there.

Oh, did I say stranger?ーI meant strangler. My mistake.

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