Nobody’s perfect. Most know this phrase. Few truly understand it.
Be careful your loyalty is not misplaced. You might be loyal to the wrong people, or to the wrong things. Your loyalty should not be a prison, where you can’t grow because it might mean having your loyalty questioned. Misplaced loyalty is always full of regrets.
Kihüruto, They called it. “That which comes with the wind.”
It came with the winds from the south, and the locals had since learnt to discern the eerie howls and the characteristic dry winds that accompanied it. The trees also seemed to acknowledge the arrival, shedding their leaves whenever the winds began, even during the wet season. To the chicken the winds probably reeked of death, the way they panicked when the ghostly gusts that signaled the arrival blew, but I guess we’ll never know. A local tale told of the demon that came with the winds, that could only be seen by chicken. And woe unto the fowl that had the unfortunate luck of sighting the foul fiend. It was not without consequence, and a deadly one at that.
The locals knew it was futile to lock the chicken up. “How do you hide from what you cannot see? How do you hide from the wind?”, they would ask in despair. They had seen enough of this situation to know how it would play out. The wake of destruction left behind. Some were already making preparations to get new chicken from the villages that were lucky enough to escape Kihüruto. The village elder who lived downhill could be heard cussing loudly; he owned the largest flock in the village, and by morning it would be all gone.
The chicken stopped running, a reluctant acceptance of their fate, it seemed. Just like the last time. A cacophony of clucks filled the air, like a desperate prayer to be spared from the demon; all in vain. All this while the fiendish howls of the winds continued, unperturbed, a fitting background to the show about to take place. Then one by one, their feathers started falling off. The lucky ones died first, and the smell of dead fowl rent the air. The ones which didn’t die would experience the anguish that came with surviving the “first wave”. They remained still, standing, unable to move, caught in the grip of death as their bodies slowly succumbed. First it was the eyes, losing their sight, a dear price to pay for seeing the demon. Then the beaks fell off, slowly, the chicken with no option but to endure the agony.
Finally the bowels gave way, and the legs broke, dead inside, no longer able to support the weight of the now lifeless birds. And with a last-gasp gust, the winds departed, leaving behind a legacy of death. Kihüruto had passed. An uncomfortable silence ensued. A tension so thick it was suffocating. Most had experienced it before, but they could never get used to it. The locals set out to burn the carcasses, otherwise they would stink for seven days straight, and no meat-eater would touch them. Like they knew it was cursed.
I lust you,
I lust for you,
Your tasty lips,
Your eyes when you’re turned on,
Your breath on my neck
Your touch on my skin,
Your voice when you whisper “I want you…”
Your soft skin, melting in my hands
Embraced in the lustful fires
of our sensual desires.
Your moans, escaping your mouth,
caressing my ears
as our bodies rock to the rhythm
“…….As I was passing through this human town I came across a rather interesting scenario. There were loud sounds coming from a sound magnifier, which though they did not interest me, seemed pleasant to listen to by the humans crowded there. Music, they called it. One of the most engrossing things I have ever encountered in my travels. That a simple systematic combination of different sounds can result in something so… unpredictable, and its ability to alter, in my experience, your entire thought process. A thing of extremes, and a diversity unmatched. I can’t describe it enough, really. You just have to experience it.
So in the middle, right in the middle of the crowd, was a lone female moving in such a coordinated fashion which i later understood to be their form of dancing. Quite vigorous for my tastes but a feast for the eyes if you found a sufficiently skilled dancer. Those in the crowd watched intently, following her every move with their eyes and occasionally throwing pieces of metal and coloured paper which apparently were of value…….”
~ Observations of an Imaginary Friend