The Hunter — The Pursued

There are various ways to survive. In some days you pass into ruins and go through dust. In some days you go to the market and barter. You go some days to Kopeth and do business which you do not wish to make. You ask for some things. You take some things. Sometimes you should kill to take what you require.

The father taught me various ways to do all these things. You take some things close. Struggle of hand fighting. Sometimes you swing a bat. Sometimes you throw a rock. Sometimes you look the person in an eye and pull on the trigger mechanism the weapon and observe that the person it flies back as though kicked by the assjack.

When you take things, various people demand various means. The beggar, a dog, scourerer? Come nearer and kick them in teeth. A Black Angel? Catch one with a knife in the back. Then kick it in a teeth. Frighten its head with your boot. Place a heel of a boot in its neck. Laugh. A praise Jesus! Grind it with certainty.

The governmental person of army is the finest. But the biggest reward has the greatest hazard. It has the stuffs which you want. It has things you can trade for what you require. But it has the majority of support; it is most carefully cautious, and will be found the fastest as soon as you remove it. It—a thin flower, what should be chosen most carefully during the moment of full blossoming. It takes the big patience to receive the full award. You live in shadows. You take long looks through your opportunities in streets and places far.

Today there was a meeting of minds. Long hours per rubble of a long fallen building. Hearing of beating of whirlybirds on distance in the sky. Long time where all you feel: the sweat reducing your person, your intimate heart beating, and a wish something, something, something would happen. Then, the moment the governmental person of army goes into your sights. It is better than something. It is the culmination of all things.

Today I was going to compress the trigger mechanism—to take this generosity—when I see it is going to return advantage to me. During the long moment we are frozen, looking on each other through glass eyes on guns.

 

Then I have awakened to myself and swirl around of a back part behind of the fallen block of a stone. The whining bullet passes above me. I wait, but I do not hear anything other. At last, I make my way far and work through many return paths and labyrinths to come back home to my beloved Fanta safely.

Tomorrow, we should hope and pray all, will be the best day for hunting.

The End — Amen

Today I have entered into the house. A backward entrance I slide through. There is the silence arriving after severe stink of death. Into kitchen. Into passage. Through a doorway. Into . . . a stream. Into the plan. Into a brain. Feeling despair. To survive? The request to find the rabbit hole downwards to similarity lobotomized judiciousness. You knows: that aperture.

I see a skeleton. Broken, a claw of a bone, a marker. On a wall, on a canvas, a unique way to search to demand to beg, to deny. See — it is:

More die every day than are born. It is the judgment. Or, on the other hand, you win a lottery – yes? All of you are still alive when a lot is lost.

These are jungle. It is worse than jungle. These are jungle in wrecked yard. Jungle in wrecked yard, full broken shards, glass after nuclear war after polar ice capitol letters thaw. And so on and so on. Also: the son. There are no rules. Any, but one: To survive.

Only because we live in dung and dream only to die peacefully and are covered in a dirt, it means that we have even less illusions than someone. We are not mute. We live worse than animals, but we not animals. We are excellent than animals.

But, every day, die more. Send away more. The father taught me how to be the family man. But it was just the plan of the father. In a stone there is no letter. We speak our history to us directly. In our minds. On our family. On our world. But each father has history to tell, to explain the world.

The Father — It Speaks

The father speaks: Anyone should fulfill much prophecy to survive. The real person, the good person, will make even more than that to allow the family to prosper. That I studied to do; that the father learned me to do. It—one thousand ways to hurt. One thousand ways to finish a life. One thousand plus one more way to be last person upright.

When I was the certain age there was a place the father has taken me. A place where the father teaches the boy how to be the father. The high building, the broken windows, the dark blue painful dark blue sky. Dead plastic trees with wide leaves which the father has told belonged more on isle of pale dirt granules. Wide branches now the soiled brown color with dirt of our world. I have taken my lesson: the broken cheekbones, black eyes, poignant lips, seeping voice hole. Any tears? Ha! Not that.

Once, a day, I has told the father, Enough.

You thinks so? the father has asked.

I nodded and we went it at.

It proceeded a long time. A bone on a flesh. A throw of bodies across the concreted floor. Scratching blindly—which? what?—something to be broken in a skull. Grunting. Deleting of blood, sweat, from eyes. Seeing only fluctuation of a fist, a whipping cord, a piece of a wood, regardless, of the fact that could be. Giving feedback naturally in return—a thousand thousand multiple—to the father. Returning of blessing. One thousand bloody angels kisses in a blush of fists. In my head: A bright kaleidoscope star, hot and sick. The tide sweeps back and forth but as with the moon turns one way to the end.

At last, the father smiled to me, searched in me through a bloody, bleeding profusely teeth. Now my work is made, he has told. Now you have learned that I can teach you. Now you can support the family.

It is the theory, philosophy.

The father, I speak every day in my breath, before each action, each sin, I should transfer to be the family man for me and my beloved Fanta: Many thanks.

True Love — The True Life

How I can tell to you, how much I love my beloved Fanta? Without it, my world does not do, would not exist. Its gentle contact. Its sweet voice. Its kind understanding. When I come home after firm day on work its sweet tenderness wipes away cares and difficulty of day. It—light of my day. She—queen of my night. Its eyes study mine and there is no need for words. We speak in unexpressed language, each other, smoothly. Regardless the facts that happen up there in daylight, above the ground, in the hidey hole to each other, we create our own world which never can be separated by anybody. Ever. 

 

When I have found my beloved Fanta, verging she was being a cherub.  Black Angels were going to have their way, to take my love to the altar. See—they have left their mark, from the Animal, on its neck. Fortunately, money can be so powerful as religion and gods and devils. Hence, for a nice penny—I saw my love from afar as I moved around the city—I was able to buy freedom so that we could be together forever. It was not always easy. First love would shout at night, to try to leave. At the first woven cords have bitten a circuit in its flesh. Love was afraid to love, understand how I felt, how I required it to feel. But it has learned in due course. The smart girl, not the smartest, but smart enough. My beloved Fanta. The true love is not easy. It is sometimes firm, as an angry fist. Or bite a hand which feeds it. The true love can bleed. Or cry as a shout, the child whimpering.

Messages — No Words

Within many days it has much rain. Water overflows streets. Bodies navigate to top. Water kills still more who alive. Sirens, sounds which I have not heard in years, go with irresolute groaning everywhere in city. (My father has told to me they powered by the sun and need no man for working but how can this be?) Within these many days my beloved Fanta and I are in the basement, observing as water drops, then pours, downwards the rough walls. We should not remain here but where we should go? Sirens moan as in death, as tortured dogs. We hear beating lorries as they roar downwards streets.

At last, today, beating of rain at last stops, and I appear above to see that there should see. Moving from a shadow up to a shadow I make the way around. On the north there is a structure surrounded by a fence and a wire. Today there are the people cabled to it. They are dead. They were there many days. Their persons decay in a way which cannot be from death and weather alone. They are compressed in severity of a pain and suffering of illness. What armies have pulled them here? Whether really it is a warning? To whom it should cause anxiety? What side of the fence we should remain?

I shall not speak my beloved Fanta about it . . . she is still sick and coughs and should worry not more.