Jeremiah Ambrose


 Should we have talked about how their beliefs fall under the tattered wings of a flying cult? Should we realise that these men have been brainwashed to the point where these gusts have carried them to a realm of non compliance with reality? That night these questions where raised through the guise of the importance of the family unit. As this socially lubricated speech continued, the man twisted and turned in his seat. His stomach gurgling with the strain of excess. No wonder he comes crawling out of the rain and onto our front porch. Like a depraved dog, ravenous with the hunger, the stench of his moist bristles linger with him. His so called family place shrapnel in his dusty pockets. They allocate money for cigarettes if you smoke. The only needs that are not met are the emotional ones. Conditioned to a point where what is natural is rejected. The conversation in the household was naturally rejected and was soon followed with the man’s departure. As he left our family unit, I realised that an institution that frowns upon an aging man returning home for longer periods to visit his mother who has entered the final stages in her personal decay, is not a religious institution. It uses religion as a wall to hide behind, as a shock tactic in mass manipulation. These thoughts are what where flashing through my mind as I strained to see the dotted line on the road as I drove through the blurry lines of rain. The glowing eyes of a stray cat dragged me out of this mental flow. I suppose that the cat’s skull being crushed by my front bumper might have also had a role to play in my sudden shift in thoughts. By the time I had exited the car and reached the place where the cat had been catapulted to, its gentle twitches had turned into sporadic bursts of movement. Upon examining the situation, I decided that the prime reason for these convulsions was probably due to the fact that half of the cat’s brains were spread out across the road. Before I had a chance to produce my butter knife I heard the squelch of footsteps emerging from the distance. As they grew in number a familiar smell drifted up into my left nostril and began twisting and tugging the nostril hairs, this jungle-gym treatment leapt to the point where water began to seep from my eyes. The glistening whispers of a strained stomach transferred a name and a face to the shadowy figure. The speckled blackheads sat rigid on his sweaty brow. Masticated food fell from his yellow teeth with the quiet decadence of gentle snowfall. His patchy stubble caught onto these speckles like dry tarmac in Winter. His eyes danced deliriously, caught in the excitement of his face’s sudden change in weather. This moment lingered on for quite some time, until I eventually re-entered my car. In the rear-view mirror I could see him standing over the now stagnant cat, his worn face lay slumped to the ground. The roles of fat curled upwards from his chin hiding any determinable expression. The road ended there, he no longer had anything to chase.     


All rights belong to its author. It was published on by demand of Jeremiah Ambrose.
Published on on 10/07/2008.


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