Bed time for miners
I like to write short stories, so here are a few really short ones...
Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay
BEDTIME FOR THE MINERS
The conclusion to all this will become apparent later, perhaps in another story you haven’t read yet, that’s been on your mind for so long it has become bedtime for the miners in the crocodilian deep always calling to you to come home.
But you don’t hear it, you’ve lost the trail; or maybe you’ve never heard it yet; whatever; there’s blood on your tongue and you’re not feeling so strong anymore, and the train’s long gone to the south where you always promised you’d go.
Banging for the gods to be aware of you, you raise up your food coupon, and shout: is this all I get?
A harlot for all she was worth came on stage then to be some lover in the ball and deny me what I would have.
Bitch, I shouted.
Come here she said, and drew me near. Do you have a complaint?
No, I said, most agreeably.
It is now bed time for miners, she said.
Righto, I said.
Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay
INVISIBLE
Suddenly finding myself landing somewhere else I came to the conclusion that electricity has invisible teeth and can bite you anytime you reach into it.
I found myself looking for friends then and hoped none of them would be invisible.
Well, my luck was pretty good, for when I called out for the guide, within moments, someone came with a message:
Wouldn’t you like to be invisible too?
I didn’t have to think hard about this one. So I put some music on and lay back on the big cushion and drifted away.
This is all full of suppositions, I know, but, take it for a spin at least once to see what it feels like.
OLD LIEBRAUMULCH FROM A BOTTLE
They say old Liebfraumilch tastes better after midnight from a bottle chilled down to 9 degrees that’s been left to mature in a dark cellar for much of its life until it has no ideas of grandeur left to spoil the frolicking under the light of the full moon.
I got off the bus around about here to take a look around to see if there was anything to look at, maybe a nice tree where I could rest in the shade.
Somewhere inside the dust of where I was lost, I found myself a fine wine as the beard grew long on the poet, and sat down to drink it and think about all the concepts that were keeping me earthbound.
Layer after layer I sank down, to the last layer, where I dropped out and sang a song about it all; but I tell you: it’s all only old Liebfraumilch in a bottle after midnight going nowhere.
Image by mollyroselee from Pixabay
FROM THE MUD
When the wings grew thunder I crept under the bed and counted my fingers over and over.
It was what kept me awake at night: the king, with wings of thunder.
Was it really me that grew this way and counted my fingers into the dust, or was I the legend waking up?
Well, I got the beard, I thought, the wings can come as they will.
12 million lightning bolts later I started a new day as super thunder man hiding under the bed and growing wings in the mud.
It took a lifetime, but I got through it, and came out the other side no braver than when I went in.
But it wasn’t until the home team came home that I just had to jump out of my seat and give applause for all their courage that had taken them so far from the mud of their lives that they could fly so.
I stood on the sidelines of this waving my flag, waited for it all to be over, and I could go home.
Hordes came, to invade; but I stumbled on until I could go no further, and thought: déjà vu.
I’d been here before, and perhaps I’d be here again in some another life, to begin again from the mud.
Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE EQUATION
One of the world’s largest armies today surrendered on the battlefield of hope and immediately became lost and didn’t know what to do next. Some took up gambling, some took up the weed, and some went home to their wives; the rest, mingled into the sunset of their lives and manned the oars of whatever they could find.
When you’ve touched death and find yourself still spinning on the earth, that’s when you forget things and don’t know where you’re at anymore.
This; will come for you; but I think you know that. After death has touched you, what else is there but love to look towards?
Not everyone learns this tune until after they have bent the rules a little bit to fit.
So follow the tune then, that leads you onwards, or follow the tune that leads you down, and don’t worry about a thing, until you get there.
Image by Christine Engelhardt from Pixabay
Images from Pixabay
Such a nice read, heading to bed now...
Thanks, I like to do short stories best. Have a good sleep
I had a good sleep...
I like it. Short and rather unexpected)
Like life I suppose, short and sometimes bittersweet but always interesting
There is something in it))
I liked from the mud. As I read it somehow I recall when I was a child during a thunderstorm. I felt fear. Although not relevant to your story.
Thanks; although mud is mud and fear is fear, all the rest is the story
As usual, these are awesome. But here's my favorite part:
Thanks. I guess my writing is like a fine wine that only connoisseurs can appreciate...
Don't be discouraged by that. There's something to be said about a small, devoted audience. :-)