Emergência.

Você nunca sabe a força que tem, até que a sua única alternativa é ser forte - Johnny Depp

Como eu paguei o taxi?
Como eu passei pela porta?

As perguntas vem e vão, você não consegue terminar de formulá-las na sua mente. Impossível tentar responder. Mas nada disso importa. O que importa é a enfermeira gritando enquanto você segue todas as instruções. Suas mãos se movem com a destreza de um profissional. Empurra maca, vira maca, pega o papel que caiu, insere eletrodos. Nome? CPF? Nada disso importa. Cadê o médico? Você ajuda a colocar o tubo de oxigênio. Primeiro tem que fazer a ficha. Mas como largar alguém nesse estado? Não faz sentido, mas você se convence em milésimos de que faz total sentido, como você não pensou nisso antes? Nome. Não sei o CPF. Será que ela já parou de se debater? Está respirando? Não está respirando? Mas nada disso importa, só a ficha importa. Concentração total, toda a sua mente se concentra em informações importantíssimas. Nome. Naturalidade. Abre a carteira dela. Tira todos os papéis. Encontra CPF. Diz todos os dígitos sem errar, com dicção perfeita. É de suma importância que entendam tudo de primeira. Nome da mãe. Isso importa? ELA ESTÁ RESPIRANDO? Encontra nome da mãe. Completa ficha. Precisa de mais alguma coisa? Não precisa de mais nada, volta para o lado dela. Injeção está sendo dada. 'Está vendo isso aqui? Os eletrodos informam a taxa de oxigênio no sangue dela. Fica de olho para mim?' Você fica de olho.

100%.
100%.
99%.
100%.

Você não entende nada da percentagem. Sinais sobem e descem. Nada daquilo faz sentido. Você procura um padrão. Tudo na vida tem um padrão. Se os sinais mudam em uma frequência parecida, isso deve ser positivo. Isso têm que ser positivo. Ela ainda está se debatendo. Você sente o desespero vindo, e é nesse momento que ela olha nos seus olhos. Nada disso que você está sentindo importa. Ela está morrendo, você não. Seria você tão incompetente à ponto de não conseguir transmitir calma para a pessoa? Todo o seu corpo quer tremer. Seu corpo não treme, você sorri.

- Don't worry, you will be ok.

99%.
100%.
A médica faz perguntas, a paciente não sabe português, você traduz. Você, que costuma às vezes embolar o que fala quando está nervoso, não embola nada. Você não se permite embolar nada. Mas você não deveria estar pensando nisso. Só importa traduzir.
A médica te dá uma série de instruções.
Você nunca conseguiu gravar 5 itens das compras de supermercado. Mas nada disso importa.
Você sabe todas as instruções de cor, ela nem precisa repetir.
A médica vai aplicar adrenalina, algo não está indo 100%. Ela diz que vai doer, manda traduzir.
Você traduz.
A paciente te olha nos olhos novamente.
Por favor, pare de me olhar nos olhos, eu não sou tão forte assim.
Se ela te olhar nos olhos com medo por mais um segundo, você vai desabar.

- It's OK, keep looking at me, don't look at the needle, look into my eyes, everything will be fine.

   A injeção começa, você encara aqueles olhos, não desvia o olhar. A paciente grita de dor, você não desvia o olhar. Ela está chorando, desesperada, você não treme, você não demonstra nada além de calma. A reação vai piorando, piorando, a voz da médica parece preocupada. Ela diz algo, você ignora. Você não pode prestar atenção, você tem que manter os olhos nos olhos da paciente.
Uma eternidade se passa. A paciente volta a respirar um pouco melhor.

100%.
98%.
100%.
Você nem viu a médica sair, mas a enfermeira te diz que você já pode sentar.
Sua primeira sensação é irritação. Você não quer sentar, você não quer que ninguém desperdice nenhum segundo pensando em você. Enquanto ela via que você estava de pé, ela podia estar olhando os resultados daqueles eletrodos que você não entende porra nenhuma. Mas não, ela está perdendo tempo vendo que você está de pé. Você se acalma, sabe que a sua raiva não faz sentido algum. Ela só atrapalharia a paciente. Ela está respirando bem melhor, a médica diz que o susto passou. Ela está bem. Estão todos bem.

Você se lembra que seus amigos ainda estão esperando na entrada. Você não sente o cansaço, você ainda não reconhece que está tenso, a única coisa que você sente naquele momento é gratidão, tão forte que sufoca. De fato, ter amigos é a melhor coisa do mundo. Isso sim, importa muito.

Vitória!

Já estava marcado para acontecer, apesar de não ter sido sua a decisão.

A denúncia já estava feita, e o rapaz teria que encarar a consequência.
Se a denúncia era verdadeira ou falsa, de nada isso importava.
Esse dilema, por sinal, lhe tirava o sono em algumas noites.
Era ele culpado? E se ele fosse, o que teria levado a isso?
Incerto sobre a veracidade de seu coração,
o rapaz caminha: o mundo lhe parece abafado, quase mudo.

Se existem palavras de coragem de seus amigos, ele não as ouve.
Naquele momento, todo o seu foco está no confronto.
Lembrar do confronto o deixa ainda mais zonzo,
então ele percebe que estava apenas prendendo a sua respiração.
Hábito comum para ele ultimamente,
preferindo privar a sua mente de oxigênio.

Para que colocar a engrenagem para trabalhar, quando se tem medo do produto final?

Ele chega do lado de fora, e não faz mais sentido se a denúncia foi exata ou não.
O julgamento já havia sido feito antes que ele pudesse apresentar quaisquer defesa
O vencedor também já estava declarado. Estava estampado nos olhos serenos,
quase piedosos de seu oponente. Nenhum dos dois sentiriam muito prazer nisso.

Se fosse em outros tempos, outros momentos ou circunstâncias,
talvez o rapaz pudesse sair vitorioso...
Mas de nada adiantaria pensar nisso.
A sua mente, antes vagando dentre as possibilidades, agora estava concentrada
Só uma coisa importava agora: Lutar! - a exclamação aqui é muito importante.

E começa a batalha.
O seu oponente prepara para desferir o primeiro golpe,
mas essa luta é do rapaz, que dita o tom dessa disputa.
Em uma inspiração brilhante, ou apenas tola, ele chama o oponente para cima
O oponente vem com tudo, querendo apenas acabar logo com aquela situação desagradável
O rapaz desvia do primeiro soco.

Jamais em seus sonhos ele esperava conseguir desviar.
Ele percebe que não está mais tão afetado pelo medo, pela incerteza.
Naquele momento, o rapaz sente o leve gosto da vitória.
Naquele momento, o triunfo não está em vencer a luta.
Jamais. A Glória está em lutar. Ele sorri. Ele está em êxtase.

Ele é forte, ele pode ganhar!

Ele é fraco, ele não pode ganhar. Mas ele crê em sua vitória impossível,
o sucesso de ainda estar de pé, disputando por uma verdade incerta,
mas desesperadamente disputando. Ele desfere seu soco.
Não é o soco que ele gostaria de dar, que ele estava treinando para dar.
É um soco desajeitado, não calculado, sequer foi pensado.
Mas ele acerta em cheio. Ele tocou na alma, porém não deixou hematomas.

Em sua mente, e apenas em sua mente, o oponente cambaleia.

O oponente não cambaleia. O rapaz ri, triunfante, e leva uma direita no queixo.
Ele apaga antes de cair no chão, mas isso não importa.
O soco de seu oponente foi tão forte, tão veloz, que o rapaz ainda se sente um vencedor.
O último gosto daquele embate que ele levará para si é o sabor da vitória de ter tentado.

Cair lutando, deve ser sobre essa sensação que as histórias dizem.
Ele não lembrará desse acontecimento pela parte onde ele caiu.
Pois ele não caiu derrotado.
Ele acertou aquele soco. E para ele, isso era tudo o que importava.
O último gosto que ele sentiu não foi o gosto metálico de seu sangue.

O último gosto que ele sentiu foi o sabor da superação de ter tentado.




E como foi maravilhoso esse sabor.


Post Mortem
Essa história não é sobre violência, quem assim o achar estará sendo tão tolo e cego
quanto o rapaz.
Rapaz este que por um momento acreditou que venceria o duelo do amor impossível.

Mas o que seria do rapaz sem a sua miopia, sem a sua tolice?

Voyeurismo de Janela

Estava observando
o quão bela é minha janela
'agora um poema'. Farei rimas
especialmente para ela.

Minha janela rima com amor.
O casal se agarrando, uau!
Tão jovens, sem nenhum pudor.
Mas não me parece ser consensual.

Minha janela rima com assalto
Olha alí, menina, não vê o pivete?
observo, a salvo, aqui do alto
ele puxando o canivete.

Ela também rima com galera:
Todos ali, unidos, debatendo.
'só não machuca ela!'
disse ele no chão. Eles, batendo.

Rima com terceira idade
Olha os velhinhos, que bonitinhos
Falando algo sobre impunidade
levaram suas carteiras, os rapazinhos

Queria achar uma rima boa
para essa janela
mas se repete na mente a frase:
"Para, larga ela!"

Na verdade, nada rima com essa merda de janela
"Imponência" e "incapacidade" não terminam em 'ela'

Nosso pobre e honesto finado

Não sou muito de escrever em português, mas vamos lá.
Não isso não é um poema. Eu não gosto de poesias.
Entendo elas, mas não fazem o meu tipo.

(Sorry about the post in portuguese, but Im too lazy to make a portuguese blog right now, will do later.)

Era uma vez um brasileiro que decidiu tentar algo diferente.
Ele ia tentar ser honesto de verdade, e bom de verdade.
Ele ia tentar mudar o seu país dando o exemplo.

Ao nascer ele:
brincou em dobro,
se divertiu em dobro,
emprestou dobrado
e teve seu brinquedo roubado.

Leu em dobro,
estudou em dobro,
ajudou os colegas em dobrado,
foi ultrapassado por quem havia colado.

Na adolescência ele
se apaixonou em dobro.
Amou em dobro.
Dedicou-se dobrado...
e foi chifrado.

E então ele cresceu, foi para a faculdade!
Empenhou-se em dobro.
Fez sua parte no grupo em dobro,
fez iniciação, inventou algo novo, se matou dobrado...
e teve todo o seu crédito roubado.

Desistiu da vida acadêmica, foi pro mercado.
Trabalhou em dobro,
levantou a empresa em dobro,
fez o trabalho de seus colegas preguiçosos dobrado...
quem foi promovido foi o filho do chefe safado.

Ao longo de toda a sua vida
nenhuma fila ele furou,
nenhum troco errado ele roubou,
nenhuma paixonite ele chifrou.
Disse isso pro assaltante!
Mas mesmo assim ele atirou.

Na UTI, antes de falecer, o médico o perguntou:
- Valeu a pena ser tão esforçado?
- Ser tão empenhado?
- Chegar ao fim da vida sem nenhum trocado,
para levar um tiro de um ex-detento?

- Se ao menos uma pessoa seguir meu exemplo,
faria de novo de muito bom grado.

Friendship.

I don't know why I'm writing this letter, considering you cannot read,
I'd just like to apologize.

I'm sorry for waking you up selfishly in the middle of the night when I was young and  home alone and too scared to sleep by myself after watching horror flicks. You would be very proud of me if you could see me now, watching such movies home-alone, with nobody to hug me to sleep.
I'm sorry for forgetting to feed you on that one weekend, although you'd never stopped feeding me love.
I apologize for being a coward and pretending it was you who had eaten all the meat, you really had a rough beating that night, huh?
I'm sorry about throwing your favorite ball so hard it fell on the neighbor's house. I just couldn't tell him it was me who broke his window, I hope you can understand that.
Remember that time I let you loose on purpose just so you could run down the street and scare the heck out of those kids? That was real fun, but Im sorry you got spanked for that.
I'm sorry it took me so long to notice you were down, and not eating much, even though you were always the first to know I was sad, and always allowed me to sleep on your belly just so I'd feel better.
I'm sorry I carried you left and right for second, third and fourth opinions, when all you wanted was to lay on your favorite carpet and sleep, I just had to be sure.
I'm sorry for forcing so many horrible pills on you, hiding them inside delicious pieces of meat so as to trick you.
I'm sorry for keeping you awake all night when you needed some rest after an entire day of surgery, I just had to see you open your eyes.
I'm sorry about throwing a tantrum the next day, even though you tried to look brave for me as you entered the vet's car one last time.
I'm sorry for not having the guts to say goodbye.
I just couldn't.

And I still can't.
I'm sorry.

Guilt

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your question,” said the murdered man’s wife, Sophie, as she wiped her tears away. She patted her simple, black suit and straightened herself, as if preparing for the questions.

“I said, what was Ralph like when he was growing up?” repeated patiently her lawyer, an old man who was as ordinary looking and uninteresting as his personalized suit.

“Ralph has always had attention problems,” Sophie began, without looking at her son, “it began when he was very small. He’d cherish every second of attention I’d give to him as a baby, and he would always cry when I had to leave him for his father. We found it extremely cute at the time.” She smiled.

Ralph, sitting handcuffed next to his lawyer, looked quietly at the unrecognizable Sophie, revealing nothing. His defendant, Christina, a young lawyer on her mid twenties, laid a reassuring hand on his left thigh. She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t dating his uncle, who had hated Sophie, but Ralph was thankful for her help. He had no money for a decent lawyer.

“When he was 8, his craving for my attention got worse,” Sophie said, smiling as if she had just remembered a particularly funny incident from the past. “There was this time, I argued with John in front of him. That was a big mistake. Ralph wouldn’t speak to his own father for weeks! He wouldn’t even let John pick him up from school, it was a real nuisance.”

Although the incident had happened many years ago, Ralph still remembered it quite clearly.
***
Ralph was playing with his toy cars in his room. The hero car, a transparent model was pursuing the villain, a red sports car, who had just kidnapped the hero’s girlfriend, when he heard something breaking loudly downstairs in the kitchen. He scurried to the stairs, hearing the voices grow louder and louder as he got closer.

“You’re screwing her, aren’t you?!” screamed his mother.

“I will not discuss this nonsense!” His father stormed away from the kitchen. Reaching the stairs, he spotted Ralph standing there, holding his toy cars. He stood there for a while, looking at his son, and then left Ralph’s vision, heading for the door.

Ralph found his mother crying in the kitchen.

“Mommy, are you ok?”

She looked at him, her eyes red, her makeup a mess. Although he was very young, Ralph would never forget her words, or the way she looked deep into his eyes as she said them.

“Your father has cheated on me. Promise me, Ralph. Promise me you will never cheat on your woman. Promise me.”

***

“What was the argument about?”

“Oh, it was nothing special. I don’t even remember what it was. Couples frequently argue over nothing, really,” said Sophie, smiling carefree.

“That bastard cheated on her, and she defends him,” muttered Ralph under his breath, audible only to Christina.

“What about school? Had Ralph ever revealed himself as an aggressive person in school?”

“Huh? I don’t think so. Well, once… he got in a fight during school. Children stuff, one of his classmates called me something bad during an argument they were having, and Ralph attacked him,” Sophie said, waving her right hand dismissively, “I remember the school’s shrink called us that night.”

“What did she say?”

“That he had a… complex of some sort. The doctor told me my son seemed to love me very much, but that it was normal at his age. Of course my son loves he, he’s my son! I didn’t need a shrink to help me figure that out.” Sophie gave a little laugh.

Ralph munched on the soft spot of his left hand between his thumb and his index, which was a habit he had. His eyes never left his mother’s figure, a look of contempt so strong in his eyes. He just felt so betrayed.

“Has Ralph ever had reasons to hate his father?” asked the lawyer.

Another memory from the past forced its way unwillingly to Ralph’s mind.

***

Ralph had just arrived home that night. He had found his mother crying in her room.

“Mother, are you alright?” Ralph asked, sitting down next to her.

“Yes… I’m fine, honey,” she said, trying to fake a laugh. Ralph noticed she was hiding her face.

“Mother, did he hit you?” Ralph asked, his voice croaked. As if answering his question, his mother pulled him close and hugged him, starting to cry again. They stayed like that for a long minute, Ralph feeling the pleasant warmth of his mother’s body, trying to understand what sort of a monster John had to be to do what he did.

“I promise you he will never touch you again,” Ralph whispered to her ears, almost passionately.

***

“Please answer the question, madam,” said the judge, speaking for the first time in a long while, “has Ralph ever had reasons to hate his father?”

“Not that I can remember,” said Sophie. She caught Ralph’s eyes for a split second, looked away and continued, “Ralph was always extremely competitive with his father, but he was never an aggressive kid. They were not the best of friends, admittedly, but John had never really given any reason for Ralph to dislike him. Except for him being my husband.”

“I have one last question, madam. Could you please tell us what happened on the fifth of May?”

***

On the day that Ralph ruined his life, he had gotten a phone call from his mother, asking him to come home. She sounded scared, so he went home as fast as he could.
Ralph pushed the door open to find his mother sitting on the living room carpet, clutching a long, bleeding cut on her right arm, crying hysterically.

“Mother, what happened?!” Ralph shouted, throwing his backpack to the ground and running to her aid. She turned towards him and he noticed she had a slight cut above her eye, where his father had probably hit her.

“You promised me he would never hit me again!” She screamed, out of herself. Her words shocked him, but he instantly realized what he had to do.

“Yes, I did. And he never will, mom. Not again.” Ralph headed towards the living room cupboard, where he had left his baseball bat, and picked it up.

His mother saw him picking up the weapon and said, weakly, “Do it, Ralph.” Ralph’s resolve flickered for a while, realizing what he was about to do. Sophie noticed his weakness.

“Kill him, Ralph, kill him!” She shouted like a mad woman, “Your father was never half the man you are, and he will never be. He’s the only thing standing in the way of our happiness!”

Ralph tightened his grip on the baseball bat and headed towards the stairs.
He found his father in his parents’ bedroom. He was holding his cell-phone in one hand, whispering sadly on it as he looked at his leg, where a knife was stuck. His leg was bleeding profusely. He noticed Ralph coming in, but he didn’t notice the bat.

“Ralph? Ralph, you shouldn’t be here this early,” he began, as if that was of any relevance to what was happening, “you… go to a friend’s house. Y-yes, that’s best right now. Your mother, ah… your mother isn’t feeling very well right now and…” his voice trailed away as he noticed the bat.

“What are you doing, Ralph?” Ralph took one step closer.
“Ralph? Ralph no! You got it all wrong, Ralph! RALPH!”

***

Sophie unconsciously clutched her arm, where the knife cut had happened, before answering.

“Ralph came home that night and… and he found us arguing. He had a dangerous look in his eyes. I tried to tell him that it was nothing, tell him that couples argue all the time, but he wouldn’t listen. He was always so angry when John and I argued, but this time… this time it was different,” said Sophie, taking a deep breath. “Ralph told me he loved me, he told me that everything would be different from now on , that John would never argue with me again, and then he picked up his bat and he… he…” his mother began crying softly, burying her face in her hands.

“Madam, please continue your answer,” the Judge said, not unkindly.

“After… after doing what he did, he came down those stairs, soaked in John’s blood and… he tried to kiss me! “Sophie waved her arms dramatically in the air. “My own son, with his father’s blood on his clothes, tried to kiss me!”

His lawyer noticed his unrest and squeezed his right thigh again, she had warned him that Sophie’s words would be strong, and that he couldn’t react to any of it. Ralph wanted nothing more than to call out her lie right there, right then, but he nodded at Christina. He could still feel his lips warm where they had fleetingly touched his mother’s after it was over. And then she had turned against him.

“No further questions.” Sophie’s lawyer said.

The Judge turned towards Christina, asking her if she had any more questions towards Sophie. Christina had only one, and she didn’t bother standing up for it.

“Madam, do you know who called the police on that night?” Christina asked, without taking her eyes away from the papers in front of her.

“Huh? No…”

“No further questions.”

After Sophie went back to her place, Christina finally stood up. “Your honor, I would like to call in my last witness of this story,” she began.

Ralph got ready to stand up and take his place, when the court doors opened. Looking behind him, he saw a slim female figure walk elegantly inside the room, escorted by a guard, who guided her to the front.

“Jessica, would you please stand forward.” Christina said, smiling slightly at Ralph.
One look at his mother’s eyes was enough for the offense to know this would not go well for them.

“Objection, this woman has nothing to do with this incident!”

“Let me be the judge of that,” said the judge, with a long look at the offense, “objection denied.”

Ralph’s mother couldn’t stop glaring at Jessica as she took her place and swore the oath. Jessica was wearing common office clothes. Christina began her questioning right away.

“Madam, do you know this boy personally?”

“No.” Jessica answered, with a clear voice.

“Do you know his mother personally?”

“No.”

“Did you know the victim?”

“Yes.”

“What was your relationship with the victim?”

“We were good friends.” Ralph noticed Jessica was very confident. His mother wasn’t.

“You are a cow and a liar, that’s what you are!” Sophie screamed.

“And you would do well to stay in silence, please,” reprimanded the judge, instantly.

“Did John ever talk to you about his son?” Christina continued, as if nothing had happened.

“John loved Ralph, as any father would love his son. He talked a lot about him. He was deeply hurt over the fact that his son disliked him, but he knew that wasn’t his son’s fault. His mother was always throwing Ralph against him.” Jessica answered, looking directly at Ralph all the time. Ralph kept shifting his gaze between her and his mother, trying to process this new information.

“For how long had you been friends with John?”

“It’s been 10 years now.”

“How did you meet John?”

“I object. Is this even relevant?” complained Sophie’s lawyer.

“Objection denied,” replied the judge, lazily.

“We were assigned to work on the same project.” Jessica proceeded, once silence had been re-established.

“And how did his wife react to that?”

“She caught him e-mailing me about work once and they had a big argument about it. I remember his son stopped speaking to him for weeks after that. John was very hurt about it at the time.”

Ralph’s jaw dropped slightly. He stole a quick, questioning glance at his mother, but she seemed busy focusing at something on the table in front of her.

“Has John, to your knowing, ever hit his wife?” Christina’s questions seemed to have no end.

“That would be very unlikely. John loved his wife very much, you see. In his free time with me at the office, all he would do was talk about his wife and his son.”
Her eyes seemed to lock on Ralph’s, and they stayed that way for a long time. Jessica, feeling the pain in Ralph’s unbelieving eyes, unsure if she hated him or pitied him and Ralph, in exchange, seemed to question her intently with his gaze. This woman couldn’t possibly be telling the truth. She didn’t know his father as he did. Did I really know my father?

“After a while, you told me John stopped talking to you, could you tell us why?”

“His wife was always extremely jealous of John. After another fight between them, she attacked John, and threatened to attack me and any other woman he talked to.”

“And I will, you filthy bitch,” Sophie spat feverously, “this woman tried to steal my husband!”

“Silence!” the judge shouted, slamming his hammer twice on his desk. And then he turned towards Christina, “please continue.”

“I have one last question, Jessica. What happened on the fifth of May?” Christina asked, showing nervousness for the first time.

“Three days before the tragic accident,” Jessica began, still looking at Ralph. There was no hate in her eyes now, only pity, “my car was keyed. I was very flustered about it, and told John, but he told me not to call the cops.” She paused to gather her breath before continuing, “His wife had visited him at work on that day.” She looked pointedly at Ralph’s mother, who looked away.

“John called me on the fifth of May to tell me his wife had confessed to having keyed my car. He also said she attacked him for defending me, nailing his arms, and he had said he wanted a divorce out of rage. He was desperately asking me how he could tell her he was sorry, when I heard her come back to the room, he turned off his phone.”

“But that’s not the last time you heard from John, was it?”

“No. He called me back again about thirty minutes later. He told me his wife had gone crazy, that she had threatened to kill them both, tried to stab him, and had cut herself with a knife. He did not tell me she had stabbed his leg with the knife, I believe he was defending her even then.”

“No! He attacked my mom…” Ralph began, almost pleadingly, but he didn’t sound very convinced of it. The judge paid him no notice, and Jessica proceeded.

“I heard the door crashing open, and John stopped talking to me. I heard him saying Ralph’s name, puzzled at first, and then almost begging. I heard John as he… as he screamed, many times.” A solitary tear made its way free from her eyes, and slowly slithered down her right cheek.

Ralph noticed he was crying too.

The Wind Flute

Oh well, since I haven't posted anything here in ages, and I'm stuck on drafting my novel, I decided to get started on my "Tales" stories. It's basically a few short stories that help me shape the world of one of my fantasy stories. The wind flute is the only one I have fully drafted so I'll post the beginning of the edited version here.

He stumbled over a fallen branch and fell into the muddy floor, hands first so as to protect his face and mouth from the filth of the forest grounds. He pulled himself up as quickly as he could: this was not the first time he had fallen, and his left leg was going limp. Stealing a brief look behind him, he saw thin branches and tall grass being pushed aside to make passage, and quickened his pace again: they wouldn’t give up so easily.

Oh! If only I learned to silence my heart! - He panted, forcing himself to keep on running, lest they caught up and silenced it for him.

After a few more minutes of desperate running, the young man came to a small clearing. He looked behind him, terrified, straining his ears to hear the faintest sounds of clumsy men cracking dead leaves, but no such sound came to him. In its place, a calming song played far away, the sound of a million leaves dancing in chaotic unison to the wind. Soon the thinnest trees joined in, followed hastily by the thicker ones. It didn’t take very long for the whole forest to come alive with the wind. The man smelled rain and, looking at the skies, confirmed what his nose was quicker to notice - a sudden storm was about to fall on the forest. The wind, which was quickly gaining strength, was now strong enough to make it nigh impossible to make any movement against it, and to push himself in the direction it was blowing was but all he could do to keep moving. Soon, the rain came pouring down hard, heavily forcing the lad’s tired shoulders down.

I need a cave of some sort, the man thought, now away from the clearing and back to working his way thru the thick of the forest when, pushing himself thru a man-sized bush, he found just what he sought: a small cave, as if by magic, had appeared at the other side of the bush. He simply couldn’t believe his luck. He hastily made his way into the cave.

The cave was dark, but he expected as much. The problem with dark caves was…he had no means of knowing how big it was. And if he entered a cave inside a forest,he liked to know how big it was: the bigger the cave, the bigger the creature that might be using it. But at the moment he was too exhausted to think about that. The flight from the village had cost him every ounce of his strength so, taking away all but his undergarments – which he stretched on the ground so they’d dry up a bit during the night – he made himself comfortable on the hard ground and slept.