The Bowl

After three minutes of sitting in the dark: what about the bowl.

At seven the playground was flawless. At eight I began to grow bored, and found a hole. Following the hole led me not down but east until I was between the earth and the wood of the fort. The fort which was the central structure of the playground. It was perfect for pretend war. Everything was. Fruit became weapon. Pencils were medical in nature.

What about the bowl.

There no less stark than the present dark I saw the bowl. The bowl itself was oddly clean for such an ancient place. Around me was an extending lake of space, filled with forgotten air that yielded moist breaths which satiated the young brain only just. As I touched the rough porcelain the earth began to heat and a hissing emerged from everywhere. Holding the bowl beneath my chin I pretended to slurp Eastern Noodles and broth. They were the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

What about the bowl.

When the hissing reached an apex of volume there was a sudden stop and the silence became the noise which kept the silence in. I lowered the bowl and gazed into it. Slowly yet without warning I felt a liquid dripping from my face, from the brow, trickling around my eyes to the mouth and finally into the bowl. The liquid was watery, warm. A deep burgundy pooled within the bowl and I had the necessary satisfaction of becoming dyed the same color. There is no need to ask if it was blood, it was not blood. Though dark it may have been, when I plunged my hands into the bowl now resting on the warm earth the consistency was not that of blood, but something like water, but not quite water. Maybe the blue liquid barbers keep the combs in, yet I have never dunked my hands into those jars (as large as the want may have been) so this is pure speculation.

What about the bowl.

When I removed my hands from the burgundy liquid my wrists began to shrink, until they were both the diameter of a large knitting needle. The hands shriveled in turn until they stopped. The left formed a perfect loop, completing itself back into the wrist. The right formed a perfect hook, truncated into a sharp point. I began to place the hook into the loop, in and out, in and out, continually, as if practicing the threading of a large needle, and sat there doing so, for what seemed like ages.