amalgamated carts

001Flashing through the grey, soul of the forest- that wagon- or was it a mutated cart- or an amalgam of a bicycle and an old shed-

Springing on the road- the road of colors- hanging from its threads- threads of yesterdays- looking like its about to fall- fall to pieces- on the color road- road of colored jelly- except that it doesn’t-break- wailing through the golden trees- the klaxon cry- calling through the years- calling us home.

We ran through the trees- although we shouldn’t have- hoping to catch a glimpse of that cart- as the milk boiled over- the kettle dinged unanswered, and dinged and dinged again- over the voice of someones, rather croaky from the inner office-  calling us- when all thats left are our shoes-

almost broken, that cart was, hanging on a thread- but it never did

break as we ran after it, bare foot, harsh knotty ridges of the tree roots changing into hurtful twigs, into squishy, squashy, colored jelly-feeling like fingerprints then weak little knives-than sudden sqelching ickiness-

our breath coming out awkward unmusical unglamorous- our sides heaving from a sudden change after years of trying to look good at the slowest possible inches-per second-

we couldn’t help it, you see. there was  just something wonderful about that amalgamated cart- if we were kids- it would go unsaid and unspoken- what it was– but cuz we were adults- as that kettle started buzzing- as the voice rose in anger from the inner office-

we called out to the proprietor – even though we looked sweaty desperate unglamorous disgusting-

hoping that he’d stop his amalgam of a cart, just a little- just a little bit- even though we’d wronged him for  years and years – and we wronged him now cuz we thought chasing after amalgamated golden carts seemed only wonderful- the idea of it at least- for kids- for the kids we once were-

maybe we’d get to buy from the invisible propietor a few scoops of randomness dust- or some bird-voice-translators- or some uppity-ness containers or some dragon dahl (lentil soup) (copyrighted by a dragon-it was purely vegetarian), maybe we could buy the rustle of moving dresses or the keys from the scallywag trees-

that kettle overheated with a pop- and the voice and its owner came out from the inner offices- to stare and ponder at the 2.45 inch heels  that were left- as we ran on the colored road- colored road-

road made of jelly

 

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About theshadowsofthenight

An amateur writer and amateur artist :)
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