He looks into her catatonic eyes and wonders what lies beyond the vail of sanity. Does the madness she screamed of hold her captive in the twisted bowels of her mind? He prays an escape she will find, from the silver scaled dragons, setting villages ablaze; no bloodless days. Ogres fattening themselves on tiny elves. The constant clammering, to and fro, an endless row of angry, squawking, flightless birds. And why did she, in black and grey, to his dismay, scribble across her beautiful painted landscapes? Perhaps some familiar sounds could bring her around. A click of the remote for her favorite newscast. He turns the volume high, over the noise outside; lines of traffic honking in rage. On the news, a city falls. Bombs blasted its walls. It lies in a heap of smoldering ash. Someone lost their dreams on Ponsey schemes, and murder rates creep up again. In utter disgust, he feels he must turn away and look out the window. To his horror and surprise, he recognised the "scribbling" of streets and power lines strewn across the beautiful landscape. His eyes glaze over. Somewhere far away, on a warm sunny day, barefoot lovers run hand in hand through lush green fields; on the sane side of the veil.

Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2017