Disney, knackered, prose

Disney’s tales – Knackered.

Before I was even born I had dreams bigger than the world could ever imagine. Then as a three year
old I met Disney. Dear old Disney- he was a classic man dressed in a tail coat- as smooth as water in a
calm stream – and a whites dress shirt and black shoes to match. The tails floated behind him leaving
trails of candy and spices and everything nice for all the little children. He lured me in with shiny
candy disguised as Mickey Mouse and promised that I would forever be young like Peter Pan. His
words were clouds made of cotton candy upon which if floated on, deeper in to his lies or tales – as
most would call them.
For hours I, with innocent fascination, would watch him weave stories with the same characters yet
different storylines. They all had the same ending but the start would promise a different ending. I
was young and the fairy tales became my sustenance, my solace.
All the while reality went on undeterred by my lack of interest in it. Soon enough I was expected to
tie my own laces and eventually I was allowed to choose my attire. Then the training wheels were
removed from my bicycle and soon I could ride unaccompanied to the local diner for ice-cream.
Disney, however, he was good. When I asked him why my life was not like Peter Pans, why I had to
grow up, he brought about the “Looney Tunes” and the “The Fairly Odd Parents”. In these shows all
children tied their own laces and rode bicycles just like me. Disney remained my oxygen.
Reality still tried to avert my attention to itself all through my junior school. It failed. I had no
interest in the tormented life where Jerry would be caught by Tom and brutally mutilated before
being eaten. That was until Prom Year. Realty Succeeded that year.
Up until then I had absorbed like a sponge all the happly-ever-afters. Their scripts were etched onto
my heart. That night like a tire with a slow puncture everything Disney had ever taught me spilled
out, piece by piece, story by story, scene by scene.
Prince charming had no horse nor a trusty stead or even a mere sword. Prince charming was reality.
As I was yet again about to question Disney, the stars aligned themselves and everything made
sense. All my life the mouse was never caught and the cat was never thrown out for being a bad cat
and not catching the mouse. And Peter Pan- oh peter pan- he was a thief who lured a girl from her
Knackered of hearing, believing and consuming Disney’s tales, I gave him back his candy, stopped
following his intricate trail and grew up. Entering reality I will be beaten, bruised and eventually
buried by the truth and that will be my fairy tale, my happily ever after.



Saw a bird

I saw a bird today

It uttered words of the hope of the King.

Also of turmoil and of dismay.

I listened, hoping on what next it would bring


Kings like David,

It foretold of their glory.

Of his perfect story,

To be marred by sins too avid.


It also spoke of King Solomon,

The wisest man who will ever traverse the earth.

His question was but one that will be common,

T’was for his wisdom not to dearth.


He talked of the King of kings, sitting on the throne.

Of his splendour and mercy and majesty.

The sacrifice for my life’s amnesty,

For me not to be a sin’s drone.


He spoke more still, of the King who made the kings.

With eyes casting shadows into the distance

Its beak moved with ferocity as its words escaped like fire rings,

That would consume future hearts, leaving behind a dark substance.


“When?” I began to ask.

I guessed the question to be a heavy task.

For the bird fluttered away,

Telling me not the day, nor the hour of Judgement day.



















Tapping her foot on the hair…

Tapping her foot on the hair-covered ground she tried not to bite of his head. “I’ll show you”, he breathed. As naive as a three-year old she accepted this notion and proceeded to await his promise to come to pass. the focus of her eyes faded off into the distance as she rotated the ring on her ring finger. Her thoughts swum backwards through the years- a fairly short swim- to when it all begun.

He had stood there beside her as the moonlight waltzed witlessly to an unheard orchestra on the glassy surface of his gelled back hair. The moon stood high that night, surrounded by a fleet of puffy clouds that basked in its stolen light. The moon, however, was focusing all its attention on him, seeming somehow to worship and even bow down to him. Oblivious of how he looked, his words bounced out of his mouth like basketballs on a court but landed like feathered cushions in the air, somehow drifted their way to her heart. The heart he had stolen.

The clock chimed. The image that had been conjured up by her mind disappeared with a click, like a television pulled out of it’s socket.

Letting out a sigh, she reached for a magazine and began flipping through it aimlessly like a vagabond on the street. She grimaced at what was keeping him occupied, shooting lethal daggers at that being. “Surely getting a beard trimmed FOR YOU can’t take that long”, she spat under her breath. Beneath her stone cold expression the anger seethed and simmered like a volcano that was tired of being dormant.

As yet another page whizzed by, her eyes were enticed by its deep dark unfathomable color. Upon reeling back, her face drew into itself creating neat folds of skin above her hazel tinted eyes. The man in the pin stripe legal blue suit, gavel in hand accompanied by a beaming smile drowned her mercilessly in her memory of that night.

He had worn a similar suit that hugged him snugly, enough for her to see the prolific features of the rainy days in the gym. His hair that day reassembled the ocean on a calm summer day as he ran his hand through it and it emerged leaving not a hair out of its place. Her eyes caught the shimmer of the impeccable Rolex watch he always wore, and continued to follow it until it brushed fleetingly past his left pocket that seemed to bulge oddly that day.  He raised his hand up in mid-air, palm facing the ceiling,  and his eyes locked with hers for but a waning moment. His eyes, full of vitality yet a mirror to a world of mystery, danced at the corners. He fell to one knee as the world around – like water whirling its way down the drain- seemed to vanish into thin air.

Yet again, the world like a pin popped her reminiscing bubble.

He was almost done, maybe then she could see who she really needed to see.  Her hopes escalated sky-high as soon as she saw the barber retract his hair-hungry device. It was like a pin to a red balloon when the razor relapsed back the subject’s face like the mere affinity for hair was too great to overcome. Her emotions now flared like the fire that flares from a mother dragon’s mouth. She proceeded in her futile attempts to tame that roaring feeling inside by she tried to read the next line in the magazine – that she should have been engrossed in – as she “patiently” waited. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.  Her feet had caught onto the ferocious ambiance created by that MAN! She crossed one leg over the other…… TAP……….TAP…………………TAP.  Managing to at least drop their tempo, she sighed exasperatedly.

She had no choice but to wait patiently on that … that! After all he was the only one who knew where to find her husband. Her entire body slumped, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, after this realization.




The Pauper’s Dress

She dance – the Paupers dance;

In a whirlwind of colour,  hypnotising her victims.

She spins and twirls;

Her dress matching her, move for move.



The crowd bursts into cheers.

They sing, shout, and follow her in her wake.

They are zombies heading to a slaughter house;

The gallow will be their garland.



She is halfway through her turn,

Like a ballerina, she pauses…

For a second… she contemplates suicide.

The crowd goes on cheering.



Her turn is almost complete,

The crowd is silenced.

She  faces them head on.

All the while her feet are an enigma,

Moving to the sound of silence.



Coaxing her head sideways… she smiles the devil’s smile;

Reveling in every bit of the ash-stricken faces dedicated to her.

“Who are you ?” What do you want from us ?

The questions reverberated from lips marred with fear.



She smile widely.

The could not see it.

She smiled her widest.

They saw nothing.



“W-h-h-ho are you? ”

She began to twirl again,A7LrPHxCQAESnTN

In a torrent of anguish- dark, cold, forbidden.

Stopping, she faced the trembling crowd;

Her faceless face beckoned them to ask again.

Like a broken record, she dared them to ask the questions nobody ever asked.



Just as their mouths opened,

Their eyes opened.

And they saw themselves

Twirling in the Pauper’s dress.


Horror on memory lane.

Walking through the vast expanse of dry sand, the wind thought it amusing to blow in a fashion imitating a pacing man. As I tried to get my hair to listen to me and not the wind, I craned my neck forward with hands over my eyes I tried to make out the figure approaching me. It floated gracefully through the wafts of wind.  The dress, unlike mine grazed the ground beneath her as though she was an angel sent from the firmaments.

The wind now blew forward causing her dress to cling to an hourglass figure on bulky legs. She raised a toothpick- like hand and waved. I was frozen dead in my tracks. Did I know her? Upon more squinting and hair battling, I saw a plate-round face mapped with feather like features crowned with a nose whose brother seemed to be the knife.

Familiarity immersed me like a tsunami would immerse an entire town. At that moment I could feel my stomach threatening to reveal my last meal. She was me.

My face must have revealed bibles about my thoughts because, with the strength of a god, she seized my right hand and began trudging me back the way she had come.  She strutted through her part of town as I cowered and reeled backward as mocking grins and disdainful words were thrown at me. I thought I had but forgotten this memory. On man in particular was the crème del la crème of that memory. His head stood above all the rest, his grin caused the married to have second thoughts and his candour held my heart captive when was not directed at me.  In a brutal, unforgiving, cruel argument he preyed on my legs. The entire crowed roared with laughter. Humiliated, shattered and torn, with my head hung low and tears streaming inconspicuously down my face, I wobbled away like a boxer who had been through his last fight.

Collapsing like a sack of potatoes on the dirt trodden path, she picked me up and like a trophy held me above her head –strutting through the street. I felt like Jesus on the cross – rejected and neglected.

Barely making it out of memory lane, trailing on all fours, I resembled a domestic abuse case. My face was battered, beaten and bruised.

The shackles on my feet promised, “You’re not free of us yet”.

My claws dug into the earth caked ground – wishing, wanting- to stay root there like an ancient oak tree, as the memories pulled me back by my hind legs. It started again.