A Yarn of Sleeplessness
By: RDV
He learned what fucking cunts he had for neighbors. Their children, numerous as they are, ran around the streets like fuck sure as the day is long. And they normally didn’t have slippers on. Rain or shine they sprawled over, earlier than cock’s crow and later than the owl’s hoot. He would wake up bug-eyed, being snatched from his shut-eye by their little noisy festival of hide and seek. He would shriek at them to just die off. Exactly his words. Sometimes there would be an accompaniment of profanities, assortment of them that ranged from one end of the world to the other. The children would stop for some minutes and wouldn’t you know, resume soon as two minutes drifted away. If they had been terrified, they recovered quickly. They would let go of their temporary restraint and come in full shameless noise barrage yet again.
One Tuesday morning, he threw a pair of scissors at them. They were just like good mood repellant that you can’t help but to intend to hurt them. Somebody cried, and he even fantasized about blood streaming down the little cunt’s face. He sneaked toward the window to get a view of the panic he predicted to have caused. But he saw no change at the party at all except that some runny-nosed fella was crying, uninjured however. Having the mini company at his drowsiness was like murder under a beautiful sunshine. So he flared and shouted fuck for the whole world to hear. The kids ran off. He saw the scissors just under his window ledge. It had been thrown out of range. How come? Afterwards he felt even stupider.
Later as he so rightly guessed, the children returned. They didn’t shut up still so he sulked the whole afternoon. It unhinged him right out. He didn’t toss anything at them. Probably as an act of redemption, probably for ethical, elucidated reasons. They were kids after all, each to his own. Not really liable for having useless, fermented parents. So even if their sight was unbearable to the point of sacrilege, it couldn’t be entirely owned up to them.
He was a kid once after all. He felt light, in a very spiritual sense. He listened to the kids. They were playing house again. They were being silly as expected of them. Then, as if in submission, he went back to sleep, no longer dead set on shrieking his way to a peaceful life.
He learned what fucking cunts he had for neighbors. Their children, numerous as they are, ran around the streets like fuck sure as the day is long. And they normally didn’t have slippers on. Rain or shine they sprawled over, earlier than cock’s crow and later than the owl’s hoot. He would wake up bug-eyed, being snatched from his shut-eye by their little noisy festival of hide and seek. He would shriek at them to just die off. Exactly his words. Sometimes there would be an accompaniment of profanities, assortment of them that ranged from one end of the world to the other. The children would stop for some minutes and wouldn’t you know, resume soon as two minutes drifted away. If they had been terrified, they recovered quickly. They would let go of their temporary restraint and come in full shameless noise barrage yet again.
One Tuesday morning, he threw a pair of scissors at them. They were just like good mood repellant that you can’t help but to intend to hurt them. Somebody cried, and he even fantasized about blood streaming down the little cunt’s face. He sneaked toward the window to get a view of the panic he predicted to have caused. But he saw no change at the party at all except that some runny-nosed fella was crying, uninjured however. Having the mini company at his drowsiness was like murder under a beautiful sunshine. So he flared and shouted fuck for the whole world to hear. The kids ran off. He saw the scissors just under his window ledge. It had been thrown out of range. How come? Afterwards he felt even stupider.
Later as he so rightly guessed, the children returned. They didn’t shut up still so he sulked the whole afternoon. It unhinged him right out. He didn’t toss anything at them. Probably as an act of redemption, probably for ethical, elucidated reasons. They were kids after all, each to his own. Not really liable for having useless, fermented parents. So even if their sight was unbearable to the point of sacrilege, it couldn’t be entirely owned up to them.
He was a kid once after all. He felt light, in a very spiritual sense. He listened to the kids. They were playing house again. They were being silly as expected of them. Then, as if in submission, he went back to sleep, no longer dead set on shrieking his way to a peaceful life.
posted by Ria D. at
12:25 AM
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