Random Solitary Thoughts

Monday, June 25, 2007

And so it is...

As Private Investigator Cuttlefish sits in the dark dank office mundaning his monotonous life away doing trivial and life-wasting chores such as paperwork (and in the process killing millions of trees), the world passes him by and continues at the snails' pace that it has been ever-moving in this 'higher-being' forsaken country.

He jabs a pencil at his watch and watches it as it blatantly ignores him. What else can you expect a watch to do? He takes a sniff at the drained coffee mug, the last remnants of the roasted beans drifting their aroma towards his twitching nostrils.

P.I. C, as his colleagues and friends affectionately call him, although not many of them find anything affectionate about the short stocky self-employed s.o.b. with a tongue sharper than a gillette mach3 razor. Cold and calculative, he is effective and direct in his dealings and his work, all of which were executed perfectly with the exception of this one case. The one he is currently garbling his brain over.

It confounds him to no end. Is there no end to this mystery that is a woman? It is always a woman. Must is always be a woman? Why can't it be a man? A sly grin escapes his goateed lips. Wait, erase that thought.

He struggles once again with the puzzle before him. What is she hiding from him? She has been cold to him lately. Her gaze, her deamenor, her touch. They spoke of something distant. What secrets lie beneath those purple grey eyes. Deep and infinite. Looking into them, almost makes him want to dive into the abyss. The endless void before him.

But he resists. It is not his nature to ponder over the trivial incidents that continues to plague his barren and un-dramatic life. The feeling will pass and the answers will manifest itself when the time is right. It always has been thus.

P.I. Cuttlefish pushed himself away from his desk, scraping his immobile chair, and muttered a slight curse for not getting the ones with wheels. Damn his own stingy principles. He grudgingly packed up his notes and his eyedrops, and headed for the door.

Perhaps a walk in the park might ease his troubled thoughts and lift his spirits a notch. He smiled to himself, almost a figure of insanity as the people around him stared in their nonchalant permanently frowned faces. Sounds like a good idea, he thought.


Elsewhere, in a dark, dank and icy cold compartment, a birthday cake awaits the midnight hour.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

The day the Thunder Roared

Morning broke on a nice stately Saturday in a quaint little quiet house in a nice suburban setting. Young little billy goat awoke fresh and happy, ready to embrace the sunlight as it streams across his little cozy room in that little orderly house in that nice suburban setting.

Little billy goat washed his face and trimmed his goatee (for that's what little billy goats have) and brushed his little goat teeth as he prepared to go to little billy goat class, where young little goats learn about the world. I know it's a saturday, but goats operate on a different timetable anyways.

As little billy goat stepped into the classroom, a little tune started to play on his little billy goat mobile, a necessity to the young little billy goats of his generation. He answered the call, and in that moment, the fabric of time stopped, chilled in its very existence. The winds began to change. The wheels of time turned a different direction. And the storm clouds started moving.

Little billy goat passed most of the day in glorious ignorance, going about his classes and his lunch without much ado. Not a single inkling of the very fate that awaits his little billy goat future.

As he descended into his home, the thunder roared.

And somewhere amidst the maelstorm, little billy goat grew horns, ugly ones. His hooves hardened like obsidian blades. His eyes begun to burn, a deep glowing red. His teeth, no longer the little billy goat teeth, bared and angry. The hairs at the nape of his neck, bristled and standing.

He began pawing the ground, totally possesed. Unknowing friend or foe. He started snorting, a low growl escaped from his snarling goat lips. Heavy breathing. His muscles tensed. Ready for the kill.

And then as quickly as the breeze, he was out in the open, fields in front of him. He had run away. Left the maelstorm, left the thunder behind. Now he is galloping among open fields, winds blowing through his fur, taking with it his anger, his rage. His eyes, no longer burning begun to see behind the clouds. His horns, retreated to tiny little stubs, barely visible beneath his fur. His hooves softened. His breathing steadied. His teeth no longer bared.

He now walks along the fields, looking up at the blue sky. And then it rained. Little billy goat stood there, in the rain, letting it wash away the last bit of anger. It felt good.

And there, in the middle of a field, a lone little billy goat stands. The rain falling down on his lone figure. And a smile appeared on his lips.