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Freedom is Grossly Underrated


It was an odd day of sorts.
In the morning she woke up of her own accord without the faithful supplication of her alarm.
In the afternoon she found 2 different coloured and styled slippers, one of right and one of left each sitting right in the middle of the street, in perfect, almost comical arrangement.
And in the night she Vicks-ed her lips and Vaseline-d her nose as she sat in the dark in front of her closet.
It was tingling, her mouth felt like the aroused tips of mint leaves.
She was the queen of attention to detail, or so she believed. But today all her basic instincts were off.
It was one of those days where before you cross the road you forget to look left and right, you look only right, and cross, and yet miraculously survive.
As she lay herself down on the bed she saw a speck of silver bright light, ever so subtle and lonely, like a lost little boy, blink out of the darkness.
Tonight he's coming, she thought. She knew it deep down. It had been long since this had happened. The Corpunine was never failing and never away for so many nights altogether but off late he hadn't been around. 29 nights exactly, she'd counted. But tonight she knew was THE night.
There would be a big celebration. The little men would dance and sing and play their little drums.
The babies would all join in a sweet and devilish symphony of sound.
There would be a burst of colour and the rain would start and stop as if controlled by a tap.
It would be a fun and happy celebration. The Corpunine would be back, and tonight he would do it.
Tonight he would devour every last drop and inch of the remainder of the washed up and long dead whale while crowds of yelping and chattering Croatian hyenas gathered around. And there I will lie, beside the Corpunine and count the sheep sailing above in the grey blue sky.
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