Springbonjo

Mocha, in a paper cup, instead of the mug. I sit down in the chair of the cafe. It was here we first spent time togther, just the two of us, or an extra wheel, I do not recall. But the vital fact- you and me, here in this cafe. I had the same drink; it was with you, I think, I found my trademark drink.

Remember all those times we did our work, and feeling peace and at calm. That nothing is wrong with the world, that time could stop because things were fine, and you were in front of me. I didn’t have feelings for you, but it developed. And then, things faded. You made excuses, suddenly you worked better at home. Our times at the cafe, I think back and scrutinise, were perhaps just a way of filling your time.

I long for the times when nothing was known, you gave willingly and a friendship was blossoming. That you cared, you looked out for me.

The cafe started with you and me- memories of other friends, doing work with them make the place lift my spirits all the more how it reminds me of us. Me and Jasmine. Me and kitty. Me and Yang. Honey surprising me. Who else, I cannot recall exactly, but it’s a beautiful place to me.

I sit in the cafe, alone. A couple too intimate just next to me, revolting me and as if mocking me and my memories of you and me. I drink my coffee out of the paper cup, it is too hot. I do not see the mocha, the pleasingly colour. My drink stays too hot for too long, having a plastic cover lid. I do not take the ice water, like the times I did for you. I take a magazine, a first too. I pay no attention to the calming interior- the soft lights, the wooden floors, the comfortable seat. I do not enjoy the sentimental songs like you always do, because I am plugged in to my radio.

I finished my work, made my way to school. I wish you were here with you, but although the place still exists, maybe the way I do things unintentionally has changed for a reason.

Previous post Imagine is a work of fiction. Any coincidences or similarity to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. May I add I am a literature student, so I write to express my thoughts. It doesn’t mean I write reports which state facts, but I dwell in the world of writers; the world of make believe, what ifs, and what should have been.

Any distress caused is regretted.

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My post stirred up a bit of a misuderstanding. I am just glad I ironed things out. May I emphasize, posts that are fictious, or literary, are

A. NOT LITERAL
B. REEL LIFE
C. FICTION

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With that, here is a short story.

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She is walking in the countryside. Of fences, trees, patches of grass, open fields of buttercups, the occasional cow, the cat.

The path was bumpy, and cruel to her feet. You see, she is bare foot. She ran away from the city to seek refuge. The harshness of dog-eat-dog world there, the snappy rude people, the fast paced life pushed her to breaking point. She got insane- by bolting half naked from her apartment, because
the straw that broke the camel’s back was of incessant calls by telemarketers. Her boss was constantly taunting her, from sexual harassment to plain mockery. She had tyrannical customers, and endless humilation by her boss in front of them. She was stripped of dignity, robbed of her pride, and punished for merely existing. She had no one to rely on, to turn to, because she ran away from an abusive, dysfunctional and broken home.

A splash of rain drop landed on her cheek. She looks up at the impending storm. Something in her snapped. She got angry, the rage supressed all these years suddenly imploded within her. A beast, released from its cage, and is ready to wreak havoc.

A farmer down the road saw a mad figure fight with the rain. As the rain fell, he watched as the lunatic slashed, mauled and gasped at the raindrops. He could see it increased her frustration, because liquid cannot be grasped. You feel it slipping through your hands, and then your urge for constant reassurance from a solid touch is not satisfied. She fought and fought, helplessly, and increasing rage. He was frightened by her roar, and loud ear-bursting wail, and then, finally, falling and collapsing into the ground when she could not fight no more.

The country is as cold as the city, for the simple minded people here are too trusting in the past had been conned too many times by cunning scheming minds- folks are suspicious of strangers. The farmer felt a pang of sympathy, but cowardice and fear of the unknown took over the pity of a mad girl. He turned away from his spot, a hole from the rotting of the wooden panels of a locked shed.

You see, the farmer was mad too, locked up and forgotten for months by his equally unstable wife. He lived with his feces; starved, emaciated, and his brain only bore the slightest of sanity. Voyuerism kept him alive, and so did the cruel fact his body hadn’t gave up yet.

They are alone, as their hearts beat together as outcasted, neglected abandoned people. The Lord sees their suffering, and plans something for them. Perhaps they serve a punishment, or a test.

They breathe, and blink, and their day of salvation comes, awaiting, along the way, today, tomorrow, or years later- a prophecy to be fulfilled.