The Taste of Nonsense

By De Heer Bill

The best skippers will suffer ship at the current of my thoughts.

So, what I want you to do is the following;

s – l – o - w d – o – w - n

I perfectly understand that you don't like to be told what to do.
You probably just sit behind your computer looking for a quick, fun story to read.
Eyes or reading glasses loaded, ready for the hunt on the punch line.

However,

s – l – o - w d – o – w - n

Live in the present.

I want you to taste this story.
Nonsense? Maybe. Probably.

Put on your most sour face but do not call me corky before you fully savoured me.

Suck up every sentence.
Smell it, and if I can give you any advice, imagine the smell of fear.

Slowly let the story roll around in your head.
Are there clumps in it, sorry, but don't spit them out until you've read the last sentence.

I want you to close your eyes, firmly, for just five seconds or as long as it takes to see those light-flashes appear before your eyes.
Only five seconds, don't worry, no one will even notice.

1-2-3-4-5

Done?

What you are feeling now, on and behind your eyes, is similar to what I feel now restraining my tears.

Can you remember the last time you were humiliated or belittled?
I don't want to rake up anything or say that this is just as bad, but how absurd or bizarre this story might seem every feeling in it is real.

My thoughts weigh too heavy for my body to resist, to just walk away.

I would like you to firmly close your jaws, you don't not have to go cramp visiting far but now you sort of know what I feel trying to clench away injustice.

Six beady eyes look at me with fierce intensity.
When fluffy goes evil the brain will falter.

Okay, one more request;
I want you to softly bite at the inside of your cheek.
This is sort of what I feel, biting hard to keep myself from screaming.
The taste of blood.

Three at first sight innocent ... ...., cuddly toys?

The left one, which has presented itself as Bobby Baboon is standing with his arms tightly crossed. Tough.

The one in the centre, who calls herself Conchita Cheetah holds up her claw, nails stretched.

Angry.

The one on the right, perhaps the most dangerous one beats his paws together, as if warming up his fists, ready to strike, Kyle Crocodile.

Drops of sweat forming on my forehead while they shout at me :

What is your name?

What is your name?

Come on, your name!

Your name?

NAME!!

Uncertainty and fear, a crippling combination, and believe me I wish everyone their own eureka moment but it doesn't come to mind, and I just stand here with a beak full of duckweed.

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BIO: De Heer Bill/Netherlands/author of 'Alles komt goed, soms' (Everything will be all right, sometimes)/ deheerbill.blogspot.com