Tal Shafik Writes

Broken

A Dream

I remember standing on an all white roof top, nearly blinded by the sun’s reflection. I was accompanied by a female agent, recognizable by her black suit and her ID’d lapel. We were watching a man who, crouching, held a plastic see-through hose, and pumped a meaty liquid into huge boxes labeled Ferris’s Cat Food.  He was stealing government rat meat and selling it as his own brand of feline cuisine.

“Is he our man?” I asked aloud. “Will he run?”

And the man suddenly got up and started running.  We chased him, the female agent and I, until he jumped down into the busy streets below. I quickly took my shoes off, gave them to the female agent, then jumped down after him.

The pursuit continued. I drew my gun -  a cold, heavy, black object which could have easily been a lighter - and took aim. He escaped through a hole in the wall right next to a National Bank ATM.

I never saw the female agent again.  Or my shoes.

Chatting with a Stranger

Me: Hi!
Stranger: hi
Stranger: so wats on the agenda?
Me: Seems as though the Internet is moving backwards.
Me: We may have to resort to A/S/L type questions.
Stranger: mmmm
Stranger: asl?

Trying out omegle made me feel old.

Temporary Suspension of Self

It felt as though he was flipping a switch, but mentally, in his mind. He was actively making judgemental decisions about matters for which - at least for him - there was no fundamental debate regarding their inherent worth or lack thereof.

“I love weddings!” he tried yelling to himself, over and over. “I love and wish to meet hundreds of strange people.”

It worked to some extent, but naturally not all the way. It was and will remain a matter unselfishness, of being a good human, even when it implies a temporary suspension of Self.

Procrastination

He Stands There Still

He’s been standing in front of the vegetables for about five minutes - taunted by tomatoes and laughed at by leeks - and decided he truly does hate them all. He hated the cashiers, talking amongst themselves about mundane trivialities. Hated the customers, stopping in the middle of the much-too-narrow aisles and discussing the advantages and disadvantages of this or that fabric softener. And he hated the manager with his white but stained buttoned shirt, sweating his way through the herd. It was a state of affairs entirely devoid of humor.

He hated them all and knew it was justified, and he knew that it was not. He knew they were worthless, and he knew they were priceless, beyond worth. He knew all these things. He knew he could never go back to that supermarket again. Couldn’t face the gut wrenching mediocrity of it all. They’d also run out of beef.

Following a depressing but nonetheless successful egg hunt, he made his way to a horrendous excuse for a woman who’s job was to take his painted paper in exchange for food, glorious food.

He stands there still.

Monsters

Variations on fear.

Oh, my good God Jesus… oh, God.

Speak of screams -
and taste the acidic flavor
Preceding Death.