King Lear

The waterless Flood.

It’s the year of the flood…

The heat scourges through the mystical breeze. Mist emerges from among the colossal verdant trees. Birds soaring above the broad oceans and flowers populous with bumble bees. My dress cavorted with the strong wind, sweat oozed down my clammy brunette hair; my eyes on my daughter Arianna like a hawk as she skips down the cracked pathway. My dress drifting with the dance of the wind. My lipstick florid, my velvety skin fair. Men examine me as I walk down the rigid pathway, I stay muted and stare away as I don’t attract attention and just stride away. The air scented with sumptuous primrose and angelic red rose, at night the vibrant moon arises and elegant flowers close. The statuesque towers like domino’s cornered by miniature villages, colourful, shimmering and alluring full of life. People calling my name “Aria, ARIA!!!!”…but I ignored….as the sun enlightens in the west, lubricates the beryl grey haze, the view so beautiful…astonished that I stay still and gaze.

Cramped driveways, fractured pathways and slender roads swarmed by people and cars; modest shops, over flowing stalls and vast markets open. Pushed around, crushed and compelled to the ground causing scares.

Rushing around, villagers busy.

What a life in a village near the bay…the expansive lawns and miniscule gardens, full of insects and vegetables brown. The faraway barking of dogs, the chuckling of mice, the water pipe notes of crickets and the intermittent grump of a frog. My head felt light with the sound: katoush katoush. People getting ready, stocking up, fixing, repairing and making garments that are hand sewn. Houses bordered with decayed wood, corroded metal and plastic, people rushing around here and there being delirious and ballistic. It’s times….. ‘The waterless flood’ we all call it…

It’s the year of the flood.

The cramped roads were infested by people getting to the sticky zone keeping us safe. people mourning, petrified and...