Last Call for the Magic Carpet

It is the season for Adventure.

The moon told her so.

She knows what you’re thinking. That her mind works like trashy poetry. So? If it does.

It’s begun, this season of adventure, for her, soaked in the mellow light of a bloody moon, planted with a duck’s kiss.

Like a cloud veil, it’s crept into her dreams, lending them a delicate muslin haze. From a writer’s acid pen it’s seeped into her sleep, and poured into the lips of a duck.

This morning she awoke with the duck’s kiss on her lips. A moment earlier upon a staircase, depressing and under lit, the duck and she paused for a fleeting eternity, weak-kneed from running from the police. Someone robbed. Something lost. Trust misplaced. Suspicion unfounded. And two fugitives, trembling with buried words and bursting lungs, spiralling down this murky plot.

Against the betel-spit spattered walls of a dingy stairwell, finally, duck paused to make a clumsy confession. The words she could not catch, just the shapes he threw from his pleasing duck mouth. She, being older, wiser and the princess of her dreams, just smouldered her eyes and parted her lips to receive a volley of adorable duck shapes.

So, it’s begun. Exiting one world, riding the shifting shadows of nowhereness, swinging by uncertain adventures like a lunging langur, before she finds her footing surely, again, in now.

Till then, duck, she’ll adore you her dreams.

Meanwhile, may the carpet remain aloft and the adventures never cease.