‘What do you want?’, I asked.
She tapped her soft fingers on my eyes, pulled my lips as if to see my teeth and twisted my earlobe as if to see if they are strong.
The father in me figured she wanted to learn the effectiveness of vision, influence of speech and wisdom of listening.
He wrote a ‘g’, an ‘o’, then another and a ‘d’. His hand was shaking, stopping a few times in between letters. The next word was even more difficult. Something he had never written before. It took a few minutes.
His teacher took his notebook and shook her head twice.
“It’s M-O-R-N-I-N-G, not monring, Grandpa!”
Written for daily theme #Language in 55wordstory
When he looked up, the sky was jade, but the tone didn’t stay put; turned bluish in a blink and then a tinge of red with shreds of light searing across, mesmerizing him to argue if it was daybreak or dusk while he was actually gazing at the ceiling on a dumped, drunk, morose evening.
“So you are back again?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And you are sure you want to do this?”
“But, it is going to hurt a little.” Both smiled at each other.
He shut the door silently and pulled his shirt off. She gaped at his nice built.
And then she took out her tattoo gun.
It was a beautiful night, shining from brilliance of the stars and dazzling city lights; soothingly cold.
He walked slowly, taking one step at a time, as if to appreciate the tranquil. A fine breeze swirled. He looked up. It was hunger and not serenity that kept him awake.
He could not choose but walk.
He checked the rope again. It was strong. The old hands were shaking. He did not feel the strength in his arms.
He checked the knot. It was tight. The rope coiled around the pulley.
All it needed was a little push.
Finally he did it. The bucket fell with a sound into the well.