A Thousand Tales

On the far-left balcony, she sat in the bright, colorful morning, the soothing fingers of the sun gliding over her skin like pale milk cascading down her skin. She wore a white-green skirt with bare legs from her lower thighs and an open neckline. Her green eyes shone like emeralds, and her thick brown hair swung softly in the breeze. She had a cup of coffee before her on the table and a book of dry withered pages in one of her hands. Her lips danced at the words, her eyes devouring them like a hungry wolf, starved for every phrase. Her free hand would now and then sweep from her silken neck, beneath her hair, and settle on her throat, her fingers delicate and hasty on her fair, graceful neck. She would raise her eyes up to look at the people around her and then dive back into the pages when no one neared her. At times, a soft moan escaped her lips, and she would stop when her teeth would graze too deep into her lips. Then, she’d plunge right back into the book, struggling to breathe as her hand tightened on her throat, her legs jerking in rhythm as her toes curled. The soft breeze came friendly and played against her bare skin as she trembled at its touch, and it lifted the skirt, revealing a little more of her thigh. So lost was she in the pages; she failed to notice her skin laid bare to the world. The hot coffee had turned cold then, but her skin burned hot. She swallowed, turned another page, and scanned the lines and those around her, thinking no one was watching. Her breathing intensified, and her hand pillaged her skin savagely. She swallowed again and then took a deep breath as she closed her eyes and buried her face into the grave of dry pages. Her body trembled violently, and her hand shook like a trunk in a heavy storm. There was a hint of sweat on her arm, and the breeze was chillier now at her skin. She kept her head deep buried in those dry pages before she forced it up and breathed softly and turned to look at her coffee. She felt still hot, still and deep in that intimate pit of lust that had grappled over her soul.

On the other corner of that balcony sat the boy. He was sitting alone and had no book to read but a scarred table to contemplate. He had a glass of red wine before him on the table, scarred like the table on several ends. That table seemed deeper and more engaging than the book the girl was reading. He was young, no more than in his early twenties, his beautiful face bearing a rough patch of stubble, his expression taut. Perched on a cramped stool, his hands lay tense between his legs, his eyes fixed on the naked table. There was a battle going on that tabletop—one that he was near losing. He was wounded and struggling to crawl back from the idiotic charge he made. His eyes ran over the table, searching for a place to hide away from the monster that was after him. His body ached as if his limbs were torn off and missing an eye. He was looking at the people that he loved, that he still loves, but they all turned their faces away from him, leaving him stranded and alone to the monster that ran towards him. It was a big, black giant with a single eye and no mouth. Its forehead was wide, and there was something written there. Shame. Regret. It charged at the boy, and his heart fell as if feeling sick. His eyes caught the glass of wine that was darker than it should have been and older and foul-smelling. He cried and cried, but not for his life to be spared and neither to the monster. He cried to someone who was away from him, and he cried not to be left behind. He wept for forgiveness, for a hand to hold—but the glass of wine was near, and that far-off hand was not. His eyes again caught the wine glass, and he thought of the contents it contained. He swallowed, reaching out to the glass, but his hands dropped just shy of it, clawing at the table. He wanted to dig his fingers into it, bloodying them in penance, but then his eyes caught the wine glass again. He decided the bloody fingers would not do for what he had done. His skin felt cold, and the glass of wine seemed heavier than anything he had ever seen. It seemed to have more than just the blood-red wine in it. It had his life in it, and it was heavy to carry but sweeter to drink. He wanted to think a little bit more than, but he knew it would not drain by itself; he must drink it—or else live.

Near the centre sat the lovers, each of them struggling not to speak too much. They feared offending one another and left out many things that they should have said. They exchanged more looks than words, each shy at the other’s glance. The air was thicker around them and healthier than on either side of them. The boy was younger and prettier, yet the girl was softer in voice and gentler in manner. She laughed at his every word, though he spoke little, mostly gazing at her. Though small, the table between them felt enormous, which kept them far from each other. She looked away shyly whenever he met her gaze, and he spun tales, real and imagined, to win her smile. They had people around them, but it seemed distant and a concern little to them. She feared rejection for her not pretty face, and he was worried for the words he might say. Their hands lay apart, too heavy to bring closer; she feared rejection, while he feared his touch might feel unwelcome. The girl would rarely take away her smile, and the boy would rarely take away his gaze from her smile. Their feet under the table jumped with unease, and their eyes met. The glasses of wine filled and emptied and then filled again, but their words did not cease.

Near the exit door, where the flowers withered dry and were dying, sat the husband and wife, struggling to find words. And whenever they would find any, they would not say them kindly. There was no air around them, only heavy noises from the passersby that caused them to raise their voices and make each other heard. None heard the other anyway. It just added to the worldly noises that disturbed the flowers near them. The flowers were beautiful and sad; they were alive at some point in their lives, but they were withering now. The woman would stare at her man, wishing to be looked at, but she got disappointed, and her husband did not look. The man would speak loudly and scream, wishing to be heard, but the woman would not hear him and scream back. The passersby would turn the air louder and thicker on each of their sides, which would frustrate them both, and they would scream even louder. The man would, from time to time, carry a glass of water and water the flowers in the vase as he would scream again at his wife. But the flowers were dying anyway. They swung at the heavy breath of the husband’s scream, and a leaf or two would fall down like the heart of a child. His wife had one of the flowers in her hand that she would sniff at, and it seemed to have been the only reason that kept her on that table with her husband. She would look at the flower as it would wither further, and then she would go silent, but then again, her husband's voice would cause her to forget about the flower she had in her hand and scream back at him as she would clutch the flower hard, sniff it, and rub it against her cheeks. And as she would scream back at her husband, she would smash the flower head in her palm and choke it to death. The flower died in her hands.

The man who saw them all forgot what he was thinking just a few moments ago. There was an empty cup before him with some flies humming over it and falling away at the table. He went to his feet and took a deep breath as he ran his eyes around the place. There were four ends to this place, and each had a different shade and air. Four different stories; none was yet concluded.

He looked at the woman with the book, biting her lips raw and peeling at her skin. She was near shaming herself, but he brought a hot coffee to the table and took away the cold one. The woman set her book away as she shoved her skirt up her thigh and picked up the coffee and drank as she breathed the air and gazed at the brighter world around her than the dry pages of a book.

He then took a glass filled with wine and walked towards the scrawny boy who was battling on the tabletop. He had already grasped on the glass and was near lifting it when he called him out and handed him the fresh red wine and took away the poisoned one. The man then covered the tabletop with a colorful coverlet and smiled at the boy, who had tears welled up in his eyes.

The man then turned his eyes towards the husband and the wife, who were screaming in the noises around them. He went near them and tried to tell them that they would hear each other just fine if they could just get away from this noisy place. But when they did not listen to him, the man went and took the vase with near-dead flowers away from them as they watched him in silence.

The man walked away towards the lovers at the centre of the balcony with the flower in his hand, and he placed it at the table where the lovers sat with thousands of words but fear around them. He smiled at them as they watched the flower set between them. It brought a beautiful red color to the table that had no color at first. The girl lifted her heavy hand and flew it towards her lover, and the boy caught the gentlest of hands.

The man turned around as the air hardly came to him. His skin felt cold, and his world turned darker before his eyes. He headed towards the door and left his poisoned coffee cup that was empty.