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Orenda |
From the title, you may wonder. Why greenbacks, straps of packs, sacks and stacks full of cash.
Well, you know the story.
Out in the bando, where not even a mouse dare to enter. There lives the children of the night. Who go on about and only venture out in the deep moonlight.
Here, I will tell a tale, where no man, woman, or child
goes to sail.
He walks a fast pace, near the neighborhood. They wait along the driveway, waiting for the red and blue lights to drive by.
I check my phone,
23:49 as I stare deeply into my iPhone.
We joke about and finish mother's pasta. Hot dog meat in the spaghetti sauce, what a hearty treat. I constantly check the time and its finally 0:00. The coast is clear after we see them leave down the hill. We make our move and dash to the dimly lit path. It's odd when I look back, every time I go there. The bando of a single lit street lamp, surrounded by the forresty bush-wick. But what drove chills down my spine, even though I've been there a hundred, million, gajillion times, is that ever so lonely tree. Sprouted right by the lamp, the lamp that never loses power, the sturdy tree appeared to be the everlasting budding flower. You, my sweetheart would be so frightened, because even my brave soul was shook,
after.every.single.time.I.went.back.to.peer.and.look.
I have brought many friends and lovers there, where the party never was bare. The moonlit night would stop and stare, at our crazy hightimes affairs. I brought a friend, who has unfortunately passed not too long ago, a young soul, where I will forever cherish our silly antics in my gum-filled heart.
*A flashback*
He peers behind, watching my back as I unscrew the bolts. We borrow some phillips and flatheads from his father's toolbox. "This is much harder than it looks, it is so odd that the door is open but the bolt is still pinned down", I annoyingly mumble and grumble. Jokingly, he faintly whispers that I am just positioning the drivers the incorrect way. He takes the tools and fiddles a bit, while I am then on lookout. There was never a need to be on lookout because we full-heartedly know that we're surrounded by shrubs, a gravel path and trees, but we do so out of safety and to put our minds at ease. I couldn't help but stare at that lonely flower, sometimes I still have that overlooking feel of that daunting because I see him in my dream. As I write this, I can't help but be sadden by it's poetic please. My brother fiddles enough but sees some progress and I, cannot but help but stare deeply into the flower's branches. Branches so thick, a flock of birds could be hidden in it's leaves, eagerly staring-right-back-at-me. I couldn't help but be entranced. Felt like at every glance, the tree saw right through my pathetic moral stance.
Taunting wherever I be.
He gives the pliers and drivers back at me and tells me to try finishing it since his forearms were too wide to fit through the door opening. I slyly grin because it only took a few more moments before the bolt drops a loud thud as I unscrew. I think about this moment a lot because this was the only moment where I may regret all that I have done because if we did not bust that door open, I would think things would be different now.
But as the ambitious and curious mind of me, I knew exactly what I wanted to see.
As We step into the corridor door and hear the creaks and pitter patter of our steps. We make a pact to never reveal this broken home, where wood panelings looked deeply dreary.
I am lost. I cannot put into words and I weep a great storm.
Every.single.time.I.recall.this.moment.I.must.give.life.out.this.story.to.be.because.I.know.I.went.to.somewhere.where.no.child.should.have.ever.even.be.
I write this so that if you are ever given the chance to cross a similar path, keep a mental note, You know once You step into the dimly lit narrow path, that it may forever change, Your starry-eyed-gaze. And You know, deep inside Your forsaken heart, it was You who chose to exchange.
There was a thump, and rattle as we walk towards the carpet-filled floors. We take a glance around and see that it was remnants of an abandoned home, with no owner or name. Wherever we looked, we saw a past of forgotten memories, laid out in plain view.
My heart races a thousand beats and a thousand times too quick for me to break my train of thought. I was not ready for any of this, no part of this was ready to know.
I type this with a heavy sigh, "this was My price to pay for an evil-eye."
Where I am forever demystified.
This home was too perfect, where it left zero-traces of a soul, except in the black-box of a cloud. I am astonished at how they never realized and I never told my compadres about this because I wanted them to forever think this was just another fun adventure-filled wonderment and joy. Where we drink and smoke to our heart's content, sharing musical laughter and philosophical rafters of good-times and solid nursery rhymes.
You may wonder, "Who is He describing, and What gives. When did this happen, Where was this and Why is this idiot rambling on about an abandoned home".
Patience, My dear reader. I tell only what is required to create a tale to forewarn travels of entering a forsaken abode.
What am I describing? Just an abandoned home, if you read closely to the context.
When was this? The summer of twenty-thirteen.
Where am I? You wouldn't believe it if I told you.
Why am I rambling a long narrative into my work?
Funny you should ask, we noticed upon a shed out back that lived many peculiar garden tools. Broken vases, smashed glass mirrored cabinets and faces. A good amount of sad faces that peer into the pupils of an ignorant child that did not read into things before but recalling,
WE.SHOULD.HAVE.NOT.STEPPED.INTO.THAT. .BECAUSE.OUR.LANGUAGE.CAN.ONLY.DESCRIBE.THIS.AS.A.HOME.
There, nailed into the kitchen wall was a calendar that could be seen out the foggy window in broad daylight, a red-risque calendar marking July of nineteen-ninety-six.
Yet, standing at the top of the stairs was none other than a hallowed-out sad, wet and depressing I have named nix.
*Flashback ends*
