Multiple strands of thought
Entice and entreat with equal measure
Daily distractions of conscience
Deter the most steadfast of minds
But blame not the thoughts
Truly unbiased as they are
Desires and ambitions too
Manifest themselves through them
With resolute regularity they return
Every day with the same offerings:
Desires and distractions
And to strive and struggle for the former
Is just another strand of thought
As I run this race
Keeping pace with a stranger’s dream
I hope I win
So that we are both denied
And I learn
And I run again
And so does he
On different tracks
They speak the truth
When they talk about the good things
About how they must end
Sometimes prematurely
Sometimes drawn out
Sometimes stumbling and struggling
The end of their tether
Secured weakly but resilient
Vain strivings and hopes
Helping them to cling on
But maybe just once
If luck has not left you
You see resurgence
Just a hint of it
You take it and glorify it
And now the tether is stronger
If only in your mind
And then you relive the good things
Letting the charms of old memories
Bewitch you once more
But no matter how false
No matter how short lived
That feeling is one to treasure
Wisps of dust fell on the boy and he woke with a start. His fingers immediately clasped tightly around the gun that lay by his side. His other hand rose above his head and stopped directly in front of us eyes in order to prevent the sand from blinding him. The wooden bridge beneath which he hid trembled under the slow but continuous march of men. Fear and hatred simultaneously clawed at him, rendering him motionless for a few seconds.
They are finally here, he thought, and took deep breaths in order to calm himself.
He gathered his resolve and crept silently from beneath the bridge, the hand wielding the gun stretched out in front. The first thing that caught his eye was the uniform and his grip loosened. These men were not the enemy. These were the men of his country.
The soldiers walked silently and in rows of three. Many of them held stretchers on which lay the wounded. Their guns hung loosely from their shoulders, the nozzles pointing in the same direction in which the soldiers’ heads drooped. Their leader walked tiredly in front and didn’t utter a single word.
The boy watched them leave and couldn’t decide as to whether he was relieved or disappointed. None of them took notice of him. None of them took notice of anything. He was about to retreat back to his hiding place when he heard a loud cry of anguish from the far side of the bridge. Two soldiers had broken away from the group and were leaning over a stretcher. One of them was removing the dressing wrapped around the knee of the wounded soldier. It was only when the boy moved closer to them did he notice that the rest of the soldier’s leg was missing.
The man who was tending to the wounded soldier put some of his water in a bowl and soaked the dressing in it. As he did so, his gaze fell on the boy who by now was standing only a few meters away from them. He would have ignored his presence had he not noticed the gun in the boy’s hand. He stared at him for a few moments and then beckoned him over.
The boy hesitated at first but then relented. He strode forward until he was within touching distance of the medic. The wounded soldier continued to let out a few gasps of pain intermittently. The boy found the sound unbearable and fought the urge to run away.
The medic motioned towards the gun and the boy shook his head.
“I will give it back,” he said, trying to reassure the boy. As the boy continued to shake his head, the medic took out his own gun and offered it to him. “I just want to look at your gun closely.”
The boy finally acquiesced but not before taking the medic’s gun in lieu of his own. He held on to it tightly as the medic ran his fingers upon his gun and examined the barrel. He then gave it back to the boy.
“That is an army gun,” he said and resumed washing the dressing once more, which by now had turned the water completely red. The medic emptied the contents of the bowl, filled it with clean water and put the dressing back in. “How did you get it?”
“It is my father’s.”
“Is he alive?”
“He died many years ago.”
The medic focused his attention back to his patient and started to carefully cover the wound created by the severing of the leg. The soldier howled once again and looked towards the boy who, in spite of his reluctance, couldn’t help but stare at him.
“How old are you?” asked the wounded soldier suddenly and took the boy by surprise. His voice was coarse and his face turned red from the effort of having asked the question. The boy mumbled something but was afraid of speaking with him.
“Answer him please,” whispered the medic. “Talk. It will help him.”
The boy nodded. “I am eleven.”
“What are you doing here boy?” asked the soldier, straining his neck upwards in order to look at him. “Don’t you know that the war is lost? The enemy is on its way.”
“I am waiting for them.”
“Why?”
“To kill them.”
The soldier’s strength relented and his head fell back. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily while the medic continued with his work. He tried to lift his head again but failed. Instinctively, the boy crouched near him and slid his right palm beneath the soldier’s head. Their eyes met properly for the first time.
“Who did you lose in the war?” the soldier asked.
“My brothers.”
“More than one?”
“Two.”
“You have no family?”
“No one but me now.”
By now the medic was finished. He was about to call one of the other soldiers to lift the stretcher when the wounded soldier grabbed his hand and shook his head.
“A few more minutes,” he requested and turned towards the boy again.
“How many do you hope to kill?”
“I have four bullets. I hope I can kill four.”
“Two for each brother?”
“They were brave and strong.”
The soldier managed a smile.
“What after that? What after you kill them?”
“They will kill me,” he replied steadily and with glassy eyes. “But at least I would have avenged my brothers.”
“Who will avenge you?”
The boy didn’t answer. The medic, having waiting long enough, decided that it was time to leave. The boy stepped backwards as they lifted the stretcher and began to move.
“Go back home boy,” the wounded soldier spoke as they carried him away. “It is all a waste. There is no end to this. Death does not avenge death.”
The boy stood there and stared at the gun in his hand for a little while after they had all gone. He looked back at the arched bridge and the little place beneath it where he had been hiding. The words of the soldier and the images of his brothers clashed in his mind. Reason fought against emotion; intelligence against instinct; the cerebral versus the visceral.
He walked back towards the bridge, slid underneath and positioned himself once again.
Four bullets, he thought. Four men.
The sun was at its highest point but the bridge hid him well. Even so, he could feel the heat and it made him drowsy. But he fought the urge to sleep and waited.
In an obscure corner of a prominent house, precariously kept near the edge of an ornate wooden display cabinet, lay the small glass bowl. It had a nice healthy curvature at the bottom and was filled with little green plants that stood erect on a bed of small white stones. The water inside the bowl hadn’t been cleaned for over a week now and had hence acquired a rather murky appearance. One could even say that the nature of the water well represented the mood of the bowl’s two occupants. Well, at least one occupant in particular.
“This doesn’t look good,” said the young fish.
“I admit it has turned a little yellow,” replied the old fish.
“I wasn’t talking about the water.”
The young fish pressed against the edge of the bowl and, with wide unblinking eyes, peered through the glass towards the main door diagonally across the room. There was no movement. It then turned towards the old fish and shook its tail with impatience and anxiety.
“He seemed too excited today.”
“He is a young boy,” the old fish explained. “They are very alike young fish like yourself. Overzealous and impulsive.”
“I am afraid.”
“I know you are.”
“Then don’t be so calm. It doesn’t help me.”
“I doubt if anything could help you right now.”
The door bell rang and their heads instinctively fixed themselves in that direction. Their little mouths opened and closed with monotonous regularity as they waited for the maid to approach. She did and opened the door. It was the mother. They both let out an inaudible sigh. Tiny bubbles escaped their mouths and broke at the surface. The mother didn’t concern them. They were waiting for the son and the father.
“You are wrong,” began the young fish. “If they come without it, I will be alright again.”
“But that won’t happen.”
“So then you are sure,” cried the young fish. “Please don’t be so certain.”
“You have noticed the signs, haven’t you?”
“The neglect…?”
“That and more,” said the old fish and slowly swam towards the young fish and then floated nearby.
“The fireplace towards our right,” it pointed with its fin.
“Yes?”
“The mantelpiece has been swept clear of all the little display trinkets. The lady took them all away yesterday and cleaned the top thoroughly.”
“So that’s the new place?”
“I suppose.”
“For the new bowl….”
The old fish shook its head. “There is a lot of room on that mantelpiece. It could be an aquarium.”
“We cannot compete with an aquarium!” cried the young fish in dismay.
“No we cannot.”
“Then we are surely doomed. How can you be so calm?”
“I am not calm,” replied the old fish. “I am bitter. And resigned.”
The young fish quailed and its head drooped.
“So what will happen?”
“I am afraid you are still too young for this,” sighed the old fish. “My parents readied me for this moment when I was quite young. I might as well ready you. Do you know about The Swirl?”
“The Swirl?”
“Yes. The Swirl is where the humans put the unwanted fish.”
“Tell me more about it,” the young fish asked in earnest.
“It was never deemed wise to talk about The Swirl,” it continued. “It was considered a bad omen. But I must for you need to know and be ready.”
At this point the old fish stopped and tried to recall all the little figments of knowledge it had, over the years, acquired about The Swirl. The young fish flapped its fins with impatience.
“The Swirl is a deep bowl of water with a dark and cavernous recess at one end. But not ordinary water. The water in The Swirl is alive.”
“Alive?” asked the young fish with fear and incredulity.
“Yes. Alive and aware. From what I have heard, at first it appears calm and silent from the outside, but once a fish breaks its surface, it devours it.”
“How could water devour one of us?”
“It does. It gushes from all sides and pushes the fish into that dark recess from where there is no return.”
The door bell rang once more and interrupted their conversation. This time, instead of the maid, it was the mother who unlocked it. Two strange men, holding a large rectangular object that was shielded from view by a grey cloth, entered, followed by the son and the father. The son hugged his mother and pointed excitedly at the object that the two men carried over to the mantelpiece, placed on top and removed the cloth covering it. It was an aquarium.
The two fish observed the entire scene in silence. They looked at each other and then at the aquarium and nodded in acknowledgment of their perceived destiny.
“What happens in that dark recess?” asked the young fish.
“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
They, not knowing what to do or say, continued to gaze at the humans nearby. The two men left while the family of three moved closer to the aquarium and spent some time looking at the various new fish that swam in it. In a little while, the mother and the father walked away and only the boy was left.
“The boy likes us,” began the young fish.
“Young boys like new things. We are not new anymore.”
“What do we do now?”
“We wouldn’t have to wait too long.”
That very instant, the young boy came bounding towards them and lifted the bowl. The young fish, alarmed at the prospect of their impending doom, lost its reserve and began to swim frantically from side to side. The old fish simply closed its eyes and swam near the bottom.
Some moments later, they could feel the bowl tip over. They fell through the air, surrounded by that murky water, gasping for breath until they plunged into water once again. The young fish was quivering while the old fish was still. Their eyes were closed. They were waiting for The Swirl.
“Hello.”
The young fish opened its eyes and saw four to five other fish floating by. The water around them was still. It wasn’t alive. It wasn’t aware.
“We are in the aquarium,” it exclaimed and startled the other fish. The young fish didn’t pay them much heed and started looking for its older companion. It soon spotted the old fish. But it was still and sinking towards the bottom.
“This isn’t The Swirl,” the young fish swam near it and tried to explain. “There is no dark recess.”
But the old fish wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t open its eyes. It simply kept descending at a constant and slow pace until it reached the bottom. A few other fish approached them.
“I think it has died,” one of them said.
The boy too had noticed the descent and quickly ran away. He returned with his father who gave the old fish one quick look before lifting it from inside using a cup. The young fish watched in dismay as he held the old fish from its tail and examined it. The father, with his one hand holding the cup and the other across his son’s shoulder, led them inside as the boy began to cry.
“Where will they take it?” asked one of the other fish.
“The Swirl,” answered the young fish.
On hearing the proclamation, some of the fish looked at each other with unknowing glances while the others shuddered and shook their heads in disapproval.
A True Sentence 