From the freaking window a dead carcass was observed being carried by a mob of vultures. The creaking sound of the crickets in the evening of the dusk vaporized the heat and a slight breeze of the evening air crossed passed through the window. The Jazz was playing in the stereo and a slight blue tinge of the curtain touched the floor. The deer-head with its antler horn was hung in the room above and a brownish leather jacket on the wooden beam reflected the dust in its shoulder. The hat on the wall was round enough to look like a head, which could have been one piece to see, beneath it. Curtain was slightly moved; Peter peeped to his daddy’s room. All these descriptions of the room and the objects were in peter’s head, just a little while ago when he stood by the window and observed the derailed town. Now, he was inside the curtain and into the room.

There has been enough discussion of the room and the eventful fabrication thought Peter. “May be I will write about the vultures and the carcasses.” He said, looking at his dad’s picture hung on the wall. You could have thought that it was his dad’s room and he was slightly peaking into it. Yes, you are right the room belongs to his dad but Peter inhabits it. He is in the room right now and we are talking about it. The cold steel rail of the railway track seemed to heat in the summer evening and the rust could be smelt in the air. Without the train to pass by and without anybody working on the derailed station the compartments seemed too grassy. The crickets sung their songs every night as the evening folded its way and nature took its course. In the winter the coldness hit the building too. It was warm inside but the cold city in the heat of emptiness numbed the viewer.

Well, to begin a story just like any other post apocalyptic world would be very untrue and it wouldn’t justify the characters inside Peter’s head. The city was stuck in a time and Peter could still write about it, just the way it was. He could change it but, could he really make it move? He was on a world where the clocks did not move. Things seemed to be stuck where they are, no locomotion and no travelling around. Just a window shaft that could be moved not the world outside. Peter could move only because he was underground and was not on the surface when the big bang hit the earth. The vultures were in the cave and the dead dog was in the tunnel. They were hidden from the sunshine and the regular moon rise. Only night darkened and the day harkened but nothing could really seem lurking. Peter just did not know who were moving and alive and where everybody was. Where his dad was? You must have thought that his dad was dead and therefore, his picture was hung on the wall. No, all the moving people had disappeared. Now, the vultures were gone and the carcass was gone. No sign of traces and bits. No remaining minutes could tell what the time was because you never know about the remaining minutes. No any head, no body living like a vulture or dead likes a carcass could be seen outside. No photographs hung outside. Peter wanted to write about these things. He was devising something; he thought what if for reasons unknown every character disappeared into the unknown. What would he be creating if he would talk about things which are not in life and do not possess anything lively for that matter? It is just him, and the freaking window. A life that has been turned into a carcass has been eaten by those who could devour it. What would Peter devour? He could not even sustain this story which he has started to write. His dad had left home so that he could earn some money by working in the railway station. Peter had that faint tinge in this mind. He saw the same thing in the outside world. The unmoving railway station and the nature’s call which was overlapping the unmoved modern mechanics of the railway which was not enough for a man to feed himself and his lonely child. Man was dependent on the machine here, and the mind of a man saw the machine stuck and unable to cater a need or feed a man, in return. This is what will happen if a man could not move the machine. The time stopped was machine stopped. One thing was sure to happen the nature would engulf it, beneath the green and the vines. Crickets would sound and thrive, Vultures would fill their stomach. The dead would die and the living would live to die.

Stories like this would be thought of being devised but would die in the head of the character that make up the story.

By Sushant Thapa

From: Nepal

Website: https://lit-at-sushant.blogspot.com/

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