I’m Not Mad
They think I’m mad,
an aged mind that’s
simply given up.
They talk to me slowly,
check I’m not cold and
feed me like a baby.
I gurgle and dribble,
but I’m not stupid,
just confused and lonely.
Here they come again,
tucking in my blanket,
smiling but not smiling.
One day soon,
when I can remember the words,
I’ll tell them to stop.
“How exactly does it work then?”
“Easy really. As soon as we get hold of the babies me and mum freeze-dry them. This keeps them nice and safe while we travel from one market to another.”
“Doesn’t it kill them?”
“Course not. Makes them go hard and slows down all their vital organs, but they’re still alive. They stay like that until they get warmed up. Mind you does mean we have to sell them quick. Can’t afford to have them hanging around in the sun for too long. Once had one wake up midway through dad’s pitch. Didn’t half make a noise with all his crying. Scared a lot of punters away. Lost a lot of money that morning. Anyway, what have you got?”
“Twins. Only six weeks old. Mum can’t afford more kids. What’ll you give me for them?”
Originally a story for Angela Goff’s ‘VisDare’ prompt.
TIME TO BREAK FREE?
As a fledgeling teenager, I dreamt of being a rebel. But between the rigid Presbyterian church we attended every Sunday and a father not afraid to wield his thick leather belt, I learned to conform.
Now, as a law-abiding, middle-aged man I pay my taxes. I don’t drink or smoke and have never taken drugs or cheated on my wife. Rules and regulations; bylaws and petty bureaucracy were made for people like me.
Hence my present dilemma. The arrow tells me to drive one way. So I do.
And I wonder if I will ever break free of this roundabout?
100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.
Picture courtesy of C.E. Ayr