Sheep: Fences and Beyond

The sheep jumped the fence.

He watched.

One

Another sheep jumped the fence.

He watched.

Two

A third sheep jumped the fence.

Three

Is it some sort of game?

Four

Where are they going?

Five

What is so important on the other side?

Six

Is it some sort of sheepish function?

Seven

Is there enough space there for them all?

An eighth sheep jumped.

He watched the seventh sheep.

I believe the word is gambolling.

Nine

The seventh sheep jumped another fence.

Two

This sheep is definitely going places.

The sheep jumped a third fence.

Three

This is a sheep with purpose.

Four

That’s a lot of fences.

Five

Those are very small plots.

Six

Who builds that many fences?

Seven

Must have been divided between many children.

Eight

That’s an energetic sheep.

Nine

It’s like a frog.

Ten

It’s almost like a bird.

Eleven

The sheep took flight.

It’s SuperSheep!

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…. FENCES!

There are no boundaries for SuperSheep.

SuperSheep has wool of steel…. STEEL WOOL!

He’s a giant ball of fluffiness zooming through the sky.

He’s like a cloud.

A very fast cloud.

A very fast cloud with a head and legs.

A cloud that says baa.

A baa that can cause earthquakes and make ewes swoon.

“I love you SuperSheep!” “Save me, SuperSheep!” they call.

“Save me from evil, from danger, from endless days of loneliness… and so on and so forth.” they cry.

SuperSheep is on a mission.

A mission to save Lois Lamb from the clutches of Less Wooler, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Less Wooler did not do his research properly. Less Wooler wears horrible cardigans.

SuperSheep is on a mission.

DUN dun dun DA dun dun. DUN dun dun DA dun dun.

SuperSheep is confronted with a gigantic hedge. It spreads as far and high as the eye can see.

It is no match for SuperSheep.

It was a long flight.

SuperSheep has a super appetite.

SuperSheep ate through the hedge.

Nomnomnomnomnom.

Tasty hedge.

SuperSheep had several ideas for recipes involving a hedge motif.

He will make Lois Lamb an exotic dinner and impress her with his ingenuity.

IF SHE SURVIVES!

DUNDUNDUN!

He must save her!

What if he is too late?

Will he never again hold her in his awkward, handless embrace?

He fondly remembers the time that he flew her to…

Focus SuperSheep!

SuperSheep might be super, but he has the brains of a sheep.
He is like a very fast fluffy cloud with a head, legs, a baa that can cause earthquakes and make ewes swoon, and a very daft expression.

SuperSheep zooms towards the sound of his beloved Lois Lamb baaing in fear.
She is terrified as Less Wooler has threatened to use her wool to make more horrible cardigans.

Why cardigans?

Then if time permits she might even be subjected to the pendulum.

Lois Lamb is afraid of becoming Lois Lamb-chops.

SuperSheep is on his way Lois Lamb!

SuperSheep is confronted by two crooks.

“You will never get past me,” Said the first crook.

The first crook was a tall hulking lump.

The second crook said nothing.

The second crook was a stick with a curved end.

It was brandished by the first crook. It did not like being treated that way, but it suffered in silence.

SuperSheep recoiled in shock.

Crooks were his weakness.

Not the tall hulking lumps, but the sticks with curved ends.

The crook used the crook to catch SuperSheep.

SuperSheep broke the crook and proceeded to beat up the other one.

These were not SuperCrooks.

The first was a mere human. The second was not made of muttonite.

SuperSheep has reached Lois Lamb.

Lois Lamb is hysterical.

She is about to become Lois Lamb-chops and a horrible cardigan.

Oh the insanity!

SuperSheep calms Lois Lamb by distracting her with some straw.

For some reason it is in a flamboyantly pink drink.

SuperSheep had taken a course once.

It is very efficient.

Lois Lamb’s brain is also that of a sheep.

“Oh no!  The pendulum! The cardigan! ... Ooooh pink!”

Lois Lamb has stopped struggling.

SuperSheep unties her and whisks her away from danger.

Less Wooler has an evil plan to destroy SuperSheep with muttonite, using Lois Lamb as bait.

However, he is currently distracted, his cardigan being rather itchy at the moment.

SuperSheep and Lois Lamb escape into the night.

The villain’s lair, like all self respecting lairs, recognised the presence of a superhero and self-destructed, a tad bit too late.

It is a widespread depressive condition. Evil Psychologists are working on a cure and spreading awareness in the hopes that someone might recognise a depressed lair and take timely action.

Lois Lamb is terrified of plunging to her death.

Sheep were not made to carry other sheep.

SuperSheep tries to distract her with plans for a romantic, exotic dinner involving a hedge motif.

This does not help much. Plunging is at hand.

The man continues to attempt to sleep as he watches and listens while past his window zooms terrified bleats, unconventional recipes and many, many other adventures that will soon fade into the night.

Responsibility

They watched. And they giggled.

They watched some more, and continued giggling.

Often they would burst out into uncontrollable hysterical fits of laughter.

Falling of their seats, rolling on the floor, gasping for air, banging their heads on all surfaces yet not feeling how much it hurt because they sides hurt far more from the constant humorous spasms.

Anyone who saw them would have thought they had gone mad.

Nothing could be that funny.

One of them had even died. His body could not survive the strain. But at least he died happy.

This had been going on for years. For centuries even.

They had a function to perform, a task that had been passed down from generation to generation. It was carried out diligently by so many. Many died from it. Many more went home forever changed.

It was not an essential task. It did not serve any great purpose.

But oh was it funny!

Far, far away, a number of astrophysicists gathered to present to each other the latest development in their field.

Some had made marvellous progress and helped further the human race’s understanding of the way the universe worked.

Some were just laughed at.

Everyday something new and wondrous was presented and everyday people were congratulated on the new insights they had shared with their colleagues and with the world.

They had a task to perform.

It was a body of knowledge that had been developed, modified, and contributed to over centuries.

It was an important study that they performed.

They helped further mankind’s understanding, and cause man to cross boundaries that he never could before.

It was a burden and responsibility they were glad to bear.

Far, far away they continued laughing.

They could not help it.

It was so funny.

They were grateful for their task.

It was a responsibility they were glad to bear, because it was hilarious!

“Hahahahahahahaha,” they laughed, “it’s all just so wrong!”

“I can’t believe this is still happening! You think someone would realize…. Hahahahahaha!”

“Its expanding? Hahahahaha! That’s ridiculous! It might explode! Hahahahahahahah”

“Haha! Flashing lights and mirrors! That’s all it really is! Flashing lights and mirrors! Haha!”

And though their laughter was loud, no one was around to hear it.

It did not escape their spaceships as they circled the earth, angling mirrors and projectors at observatories and satellites.

Astrophysicists would continue to share their knowledge with the world.

And they would continue to watch and laugh, until some else came to rescue them from their hilarious responsibility.

Pondering

The man sat in his seat. As men who sit are wont to do when they are not sitting on floors, walls, garbage, luggage or the toilet.

He pondered about life. Life pondered about him. They were mutually unable to understand each other.

“What is the meaning of Life?” he pondered.

“What is the meaning of Victor?” pondered Life.

Neither was about to figure it out.

Death looked on and laughed.

The man stared into space.

Space stared back at him.

Both unseeing.

He did not see space. He saw the images in his mind where space should have been.

Space did not see him. Space saw other matters of great magnitude.

Time flitted by and stayed there simultaneously.

Time was an asshole. 

Numbers

He was a normal individual, living his normal life very normally. He was moderately satisfied with it, his life and his normalcy. It wasn’t great. But it had its moments. And though he could not be considered an adventurer,- In any sense of the term, not even if adventurer pills were invented and he could take them orally-, he added great joy to his life through travel.

He loved seeing new places, experiencing new things, eating new foods, wearing new garments, puking new and interestingly coloured puke, riding new vehicles, taking new diarrhoea medications, and so on and so forth. He enjoyed every last bit of it.

But then one day he noticed the numbers.

He was surprised he hadn’t noticed them before.  They seemed to be everywhere.

But then maybe they hadn’t been there before. He didn’t know.

They were strange numbers.

They were painted on rocks and on walls and on odd little tombstone like things.

They occurred in regular intervals, he saw them everywhere as he travelled. And once he had noticed them for the first time, he could never again be oblivious to their presence.

They were sequential. They seemed to be counting up, or counting down towards some mysterious end.

But strangest of all… They were fractions!

He soon became preoccupied with their significance. Where do they lead? What is at their mysterious end? Why intervals? ...  And, most pressing of all … why fractions?

He started driving around following their sequence trying to find their origin or their terrifying end.

It was then that he discovered that their end never came. They were leading to something somewhere. That he was sure. But unfortunately, they never did. Or they did, but somehow he missed it.

Always!

Just as he neared the mysterious destination … The fractions would suddenly change. And a new sequence would begin.

Sometimes it would begin halfway through the sequence.

He was very annoyed.

Both by its randomness and also by fractions in general.

Then he thought maybe the spaces in between were inaccessible, placed by someone into strange time-space pockets that one must break into with futuristic technology.

Futuristic technology was not yet futuristic enough.

He did not notice how he began to spend most of his waking life following the numbers and developing theories about their meaning and then doing outlandish things in order to achieve something only he understood.

The numbers soon drove him insane. He never found their end.

The numbers pondered about themselves.

They wondered about their purpose.

They lived their two dimensional lives, trying to understand the meaning of it all.

And forever they awaited the return of that omnipotent paintbrush in the sky.

On a bright and moonlit night, on a road far away, an immortal child runs free, revelling in the glory that is life and nature. He stops, crouches near the ground, fascinated by things that most adults cannot understand. He jumps up suddenly and breaks into the run that is the only way he knows to be.

He giggles.

“Fractions are so much fun!” he says to nobody in particular and disappears into the night, a small brush and a little can of paint held tightly in his tiny hand.

The Beach

The four of them walked onto the beach.

Him and her, hand in hand, their son and daughter running after each other, laughing.

The beach was beautiful.

The sand was white.

The water was clear.

And near the water, all along the beach, glistened a rainbow of colours.

Thousands and thousands of multicoloured shells lay on the sand, collected over time by the toil of the sea.

It was perfect.

It was relaxing.

It was just what they needed.

They were awed at the wonder that is nature. The beauty was unsurpassed.

They walked hand in hand, their children running behind them.

They were happy.

And, as they walked, thousands of multicoloured souls screamed in silence as they were crushed beneath their feet.

Predator

She had been stalking her prey for a while.

She had made a mistake, and charged to soon.

She was not close enough.

Her prey had run away as fast as it could.

She had given chase for a while, but she hadn’t caught it yet.

She was pacing herself. She had a strategy.

It was tired, and was hiding out of sight.

She crept slowly and quietly, her feet making no noise against the soft ground.

She was very near, and would soon attack.

Suddenly she pounced!

Her prey was taken by surprise.

Ignoring the screams of protest, the little girl in pink grabbed the balloon and was gone. 

Kaju Katli

Nayantara sat at the table socializing, because that was what she did, as a rule, at social gatherings. It was a strange thing to do, but she was a creature of habit and could not do it any other way. Sometimes, just in case, she had to bring her own table along.

She was having fun, conversing with old friends and new friends, including a wise and mysterious man who was filled with secret knowledge and ancient lore that had been lost over time. He had answers to questions that most people asked. But more often than not the answers were not the kind they sought.

He was speaking, as all wise and mysterious men do, of fake weddings and bearded legs when she happened to discover that her finger was covered in strange shiny silver coating.

“Where did that come from?” she muttered to herself.

“Ah, that is because you used to be a kaju katli.” said the man in a tone that conveyed that nothing was amiss with this statement at all.

“HAHA!” laughed Nayantara.

The man ignored her, as he did so many others, and began his tale.

“Once upon a time there was a young girl who was given a kaju katli by her father to eat. Only this girl had a tendency to play with her food and decided to peel of the silver foil on the top of the kaju katli. And, as the foil came off, lo and behold! A Nayantara emerged!

“Thank you dear girl” said the Nayantara. “An evil witch turned me into a kaju katli, to die of consumption by a little girl. But you have removed the foil that bound me and freed me from my sugary grave.”

“Pray tell, sweet Nayantara”, asked the girl, “why did the witch curse you?”

“Why in order to steal my pudding of course” replied the Nayantara, and flew away whistling to herself.

The poor girl was left kaju katli-less and confused.

But the girl had not finished peeling off the foil completely and hence the Nayantara was left with a shiny finger.  It would always serve as a reminder of that terrible time that she spent as a kaju katri and how the fidgetiness of a little girl saved her life. This would serve her no purpose but aid her deal with her own fidgety kids. She also learned that protecting her pudding was not that important.

And they all lived happily ever after” concluded the wise mysterious man.

“What a wonderful story!” said Nayantara.

“What wonderful pudding!” said the man, and with a cackle of laughter disappeared in a flash of light.

And Nayantara looked down to find that her bowl was indeed now empty.

Bathrooms: Predators

Answering the call of the wild, in your urban bathroom can be made ever so uncomfortable by the presence of a lizard.

“Lizard!” you laugh, “They don’t do anything! Why should you be scared?”

I’m not scared. Just deeply troubled.

There was a time when I too had a cordial relationship with all lizards.

I would talk to them lovingly and berate them for infesting my kitchen in Mumbai.

I would also congratulate them for ridding us of all the cockroaches.

That was before I realised their true nature.

That was before I found out how disgusting they were.

That was before one of them molested me.

Yes, I was molested by a lizard.

I was at a friend’s farm, enjoying a short vacation outside the city. At some point I needed to make, what, because it amuses me, I shall refer to as, a poopie. After which I was going to take a bath.

So I went into the downstairs bathroom, undressed, sat on the toilet, and commenced with the poopie making.

Little did I know that this was the very same toilet under which a lizard had decided to hide in wait for a suitable victim.

It seems I was suitable enough.

When I was halfway through, the lizard decided that I was in a compromising enough position and decided to take advantage of me.

It ran up my naked thigh, across my stomach, up my chest, and jumped off onto the wall behind me and, like most perverts, ran away.

As its tiny five fingered hands were feeling its way up my naked, and admittedly curvy body, I felt the urge to jump up and defend myself.

But I couldn’t.

I was in the middle of making a poopie, and not even a groping lizard could stop me.

I had to endure it. But thankfully it was over quickly.

I felt so violated.

I have never been able to look a lizard in the eye since. Bloody reptiles.

So you can see why I was uncomfortable when a lizard entered my bathroom, yet again.

But this time I was armed.

With an ingenious plan!

                                                          

I turned on the hot water in the shower and left the bathroom door slightly ajar. The lizard, being a cold blooded b*****d, was flushed out by the collecting heat.

I was again able to bathe in peace, away from the reptile gropers of the world.

But I live in constant fear that they shall be back again…, now that they have had a taste of my irresistible fiery sensuality.

Bathrooms: Sting of Death

Apart from death by falling showerheads, bathrooms are made ever more dangerous by the invading critters.

Bees are one of these.

Now I do not fear bees. But I am creeped out by anything that can move faster than I can squish it.

And because I’m sure the universe is out to get me (specifically my toe, but me in general too) I’m convinced I would be highly allergic to bee stings.

All the windows and doors at home have thing wire meshing to keep out the bloodsucking mosquitoes and the bees, who have decided to build three separate hives in each balcony overhang.

I believe they intend to take over the house soon, invade our bodies and live our lives. If I start craving nectar, be warned.

At night the bees are attracted to light and try and invade the house. They do not succeed often.

But, unbeknownst to me, one managed to get into my bathroom through a space in the window frame, and like all devious creatures proceeded to hide itself and silently wait in the folds of the shower-curtain.

Not long after I found myself, naked, half wet, diving and ducking trying to avoid the recently emerged bee.

Being naked I could not escape.

The bathroom being locked, the bee could not escape either.

It seems bees who find a way in, never remember how to get out. Idiots!

Then followed a complicated dance between the bee and I, as I frantically tried to dry myself off, put on pants, and avoid being stung in sensitive places, which I swear the bee was aiming for.

I’m surprised I didn’t accidentally kill myself against another bathroom fitting.

The towel rack perhaps.

Recently it has been looking at me quite deviously.

But I soon solved the problem of the bee by switching off the bathroom lights, opening the door and waiting until it followed the light into the bedroom.

From there it could do as it pleased.

I would deviously leave my family to deal with it, while I…… would bathe.

The bee however decided that it would climb into the light fixture and partaaay.

It soon died from the heat.

I continued my bath in peace, not in the least marred by guilt.

Bathrooms: Assassins

All of you living happily in your homes, feeling safe and protected from the world beyond your doors.

I must tell you scary, horrific, terrifying things.

Please do listen, you might enjoy yourself.

There is a dark side to the society we live in.

There are dangerous things that could hurt you, kill you or emotionally scar you for life.

And they are closer to you than you think.

…Within your own homes.

…In your bathrooms.

Bathrooms are dangerous places. Many of my most traumatic encounters have occurred in bathrooms, including my (tooth)brush with death.

Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will eventually die in my bathroom. Not, as many have, by a heart attack, aneurism, or extreme constipation, but by things far more sinister.

Like falling showerheads.

Yes. Falling showerheads.

There I was one morning, showering, and in my usual fashion, ruminating on the meaning of life and what I could eat for breakfast. It did not dawn upon me then, that the meaning of life might in fact be substantial breakfasts.

Suddenly there was a pop above me, followed closely by a thud and a crack at my feet.

The showerhead had popped off.

A tile had cracked.

Next to my toe.

My cursed toe that the Universe is out to get, but that is another story.

It could have been my head.

They could have found me dead, naked and contorted on the floor, blood having gushed from the showerhead shaped wound in my scalp. That would not be pretty.

Luckily at that moment I had stretched out to get my alleged “hair revitalizing” shampoo and thus failed to be decapitated by the falling bathroom fitting. My balding head saved my life. Who’d have thought?

This makes me believe that my hair is sentient and can see the future, leading it to begin falling out many years ago, just so it could save me in my moment of peril. Now that it has done that, I expect a full head of hair to grow back in a few weeks.

But it didn’t stop there.

I had now taken to showering under a headless shower. The kind Sleepy Hollow is full of.

Yet several days later, while stretching out for my con-artist shampoo, (hair still refusing to grow back), the showerhead fell at my feet again.

I, needless to say, was flabbergasted.

My showerhead was out to get me.

Not only did it attempt to decapitate me, it attempted it TWICE.

And I had left it on the shelf in the corner!

Somehow it had crept its way back into the shower-fitting, to wait for the opportune moment when it could decapitate me.

I have no idea what I could have done to make it so vengeful. So I now believe it is a hired assassin.

True, my cousin who had showered in my bathroom earlier could have placed it there, being unaware of its murderous intentions. But I like to think I’m important enough for my showerhead to want to finish the job itself.

And it could.

Anytime now.

The Hunt

He wandered the jungles, in the fashion typical of a jungle wanderer, which, coincidently, he was.

He was a hunter.

He was a legend.

He was a legend, partly because not many met him twice, thus lending a sense of mystery to his person. He was also mysterious because he never told anyone his name.

(His name was Glenda, so you can see why.)

But he was mostly a legend because he hunted the most dangerous of all the jungle animals.

Bread and feral vegetables.

Hunting bread is an ordeal that not many put themselves through.

Bread in its wild form, is an aggressive dough. It attacks with the gusto and ferocity of several Goan men on Easter breaking their Lenten fast. Bread is lightening fast, flexible, highly intelligent, and has been known to swallow some animals whole.

Glenda had developed a unique technique for hunting bread, one that resulted in a tasty exotic meal.

He would bait the bread with a flock of chickens.

Bread, it is widely known, has an affinity for chicken.

What is not known is that after swallowing a chicken whole, bread becomes stuffed, and less quick and flexible, much like post Easter feast Goan men.

Thus the bread becomes easy to catch and, if cooked quickly enough, can be cracked open to reveal a wonderfully delicious chicken, that has stewed in the bread stomach juices.

Feral vegetables on the other hand are far more violent and take to attacking men due to their ongoing existential crises. Banished into the jungle, feral vegetables have devolved into uncivilised creatures, living troubled underground lives.

Glenda developed a technique of capturing these vegetables that involved the complex use of several different baits such as pork, which feral vegetables love, philosophy, therapeutic techniques, and obscene pictures of drunken fruit.

Yet there was one jungle creature that even he had difficulty hunting. This creature came into being when bread and feral vegetables merged together, in some very unusual jungle mating process, to form that most devious of all deviousness- The pizza.

The pizza, though far tastier than its predecessors, had the most dangerous qualities of both, and some had even developed a taste for beef. These are the ones that would hunt in packs.

Stealthy creatures, the pizzas would creep up behind an unsuspecting cow. The leader of the pack would attack, quickly sinking it’s dough into the poor cow’s neck and killing it in one swift bite while the others would tear it to shreds with their sharp cheese.

Glenda was on the trail of a pizza that had been terrorizing a nearby village.

He tracked the pizza carefully through the undergrowth. It was easy to do this once he had found the trail. He just had to look out for the toppings.

“Hmmm” he thought to himself, as he tasted one, “Still warm. I’m getting closer”

Soon he came upon a clearing and spied the pizza heading towards a cave. It was a large one, of the serves 6 variety.

The pizza, not the cave.

Quickly he threw his spear and straight through the heart of the pizza. Gasping and choking it fell to the ground. Slowly tomato sauce spread across its torso and stained the grass red.

Suddenly he heard a commotion from the cave. Six other pizzas came out of the cave and ran towards the first.

They were much smaller personal sized pizzas. They gathered around the larger one.

“Nahiiii! MAAA!” They screamed in grief, although in an untranslatable pizza language.

They saw him standing there and advanced on him quickly, revenge in their beady little olives.

Recognizing the danger he was in, he fled quickly, and managed a narrow escape.

A few minutes later he was killed by a group of very angry, very obscene, drunk fruit.

Tap... Tap... Tap... Tap...

*tap… tap… tap… tap…*

Amrita woke up.

It was a dark moonless night.

She was gripped by a nameless fear.

Its widowed mother had died in childbirth leaving it alone in the world. Motherless, and nameless, it grew up an abused, unwanted fear and soon took to groping at women in the dark.

Poor thing.

*tap… tap… tap… tap...*

The strange rhythmic tapping echoed, faint but eerie through the silence of the night.

She was drawn to it. It was strangely familiar and yet deeply troubling.

It was a perilous sound that seemed to speak to her very being, haunting her, commanding her, controlling her.

The more she listened the more it mesmerised her.

And then she heeded its command. She heeded its command like any self respecting mesmerised girl would. Barefoot and in her pajamas, her bed head a terrifying sight in itself.

*tap… tap… tap… tap…*

Out of bed.

Out the door.

Down the stairs.

Across the path.

Stumble, trip, fall.

Get up, embarrassed, look around to see if any one saw, continue, but in a more careful mesmerised state.

Up the stairs.

Through the door.

*tap… tap… tap… tap…*

She was in the recreation room.

Someone was playing table tennis.

Alone.

In the dark.

While completely asleep.

Her head lolled to one side and she stood stiffly.

Her hand moved automatically as though she was nothing more than a large dishevelled, and peacefully snoring puppet.

Her opponent was a floating paddle.

“Welcome Amrita”, said an ethereal voice that whispered in the room.

“So sorry for waking you” it continued politely, “but I have need of you.”

“Who are you?” she asked, directing her question at the girl.

“hmmmmmblrrrrr…….no, no! Bad giraffe! Bad!” the girl replied.

“Don’t mind her”, said the voice. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, she’s just potty training her giraffe.”

“Aah”, said Amrita, in a voice that suggested that that made perfect sense to her.

It didn’t. But she had a pet fish that talked to her constantly, and she was practised in pretending to understand. Her fish was quite crazy.

“Who are you?” she asked, and directed the question at the voice, which was nowhere in particular.

“Oh! Just your sportive neighbourhood ghost, but it gets so boring playing against myself, so I thought I’d find a worthy opponent. Fancy a game?”

Her immediate reply was, obviously, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The other, temporarily possessed girl went back to her room. Sleepwalking and now discussing how many jujubes she wanted in her tiara.

Amrita and the paddle played and played.

Amrita overjoyed.

The paddle overjoyed, though it was hard to tell. Paddles tend to be so inexpressive.

*tap… tap… tap…tap… *

They never stopped.

Amrita died of exhaustion but didn’t stop playing, even as her body crumpled to the floor, in a rather undignified, floppily manner.

They found her lying peacefully under the T.T. table, her paddle floating above her heaped body, still engrossed in the game.

More than the floating paddle, it was the crazed look in her eyes and her violent bedhead that utterly traumatised the guy who found her.

“OH MY GOD!” he screamed, “What’s wrong with her face?”

“Um……,” replied his infinitely calmer friend, “she’s dead”

“I know that”, he said offhandedly, “but seriously, what’s wrong with her face?”

It was the terrifyingly hideous grin of pure happiness.

At her funeral they would say through teary eyes, “She died like she always wanted. It was her dream. She wanted to go on her own terms, while the ball was still in her court.”

And forever you can hear the rhythmic sounds of two matched souls, playing table tennis into eternity.

*tap… tap… tap…tap… *