Mindreader

( An Episodic narration of a prosaic story which is yet a poem)

The boy stared hard at the two bit red bird. It was so easy to kill, a single sling shot that was all it took to snuff off the livid flame. With practiced ease he eased into the shooting position, it must be remembered that whether in bow or sling the main stress was to feel and see the target with sensitive eyes and to hear the very heart beat of the victim even from a distance of upto a mile and not stare at the dart or the stone. Once the victim's body and mind were yours, all you had to do was ease the twang at the dart, not to push the dart or to stare at the dart, your target would be achieved. The boy had imprisoned the bird's mind and soul. Now only to release, then with practised ease the string was given its much desperately sought freedom. There is a unique majesty in the flying shot........................... The flowing air seeking to debunk it and it mysteriously cutting its own path in the parabolic saga of beauty and ultimate truth revelling in its own strength and its pride. The spattering speed taking it like an immortal God in the very splash and explosion of mortal incardine staggering gouts.

The bird fell dead and the smiling boy went up to it to claim his trophy when he saw the still beating pump opened to the view of the world. He smiled and sat beside his dying victim revelling in the despair and steep accusation of those faltering eyes boring into those of its victor questioning the need. Why should it die? It had harmed none, it was but the most beautiful creation of Mother Nature, Oh, then why, why should it die? It served no purpose to the boy as food nor as garment or respect. Then why was it removed so futilely for nothing but boyish sport? Why couldn't its life had served a purpose? Why this futile death?

But the questions found mute gloating stare that only revelled in success of its sport. The flame in heat of rage before subsiding to ash.

However when the Gloating boy went to lift his prize there was the squeak all around him but it bespoke a human tongue. Its message chilled the spine of the fleeing boy who never returned to lift his prize from the decomposing earth as flesh and earth bound as one as energy and soul and the proud red plume sunk in the ground to the bone dry skeleton that passed into dust. Thus was beauty destroyed but it was rage that said:

Mortal whelp of the nether sands

To you are barred joy's lands

You will do but what you love

That is help people to snuff

You will kill and kill each day but you will relieve your victims

You will like oil that over slip always skims

Relieve and die with those you hunt

You will feel death but you dead will shunt

You will read their minds and their hearts

You will be crushed like apple tarts

Yet you will live till that day is reached

When from hatred is leached

By a woman you will love to fault

But from killing her you will be unable to halt

The death will release you from your bond and fate

For you will see me again on that date

When the day comes kill me again quick

For then together in this mortal realm we will never again stick

*******************************

The man's heart had come in the the in the intersecting lines that some call cross-hairs. Which would be faster, the heart or the femoral artery or the carotid artery or lobular venacava and the cranial explosion. He would have to die fast as he would savour the same pain as his victim. He better die quick as these days the experience was getting nigh unbearable. With resigned he wished for something like a zillionth time that he would not have to do this to live but what can he do? He was the best sniper in the country and thus automatically the best Hitman for the job. He chose the cranial cavity and then stepped into the mind of the victim, soon he was walking his gait, thinking his thoughts and the jailer of the gaol for the man's heart and soul, the trigger got pressed almost by itself. He quickly stashed his thick wad of cotton in his jaw trapping the tongue, teeth and his face.

Even the speeding beauty of the bullet was thing to watch as it immersed itself a mile away in between the eyes of the victim, where the mortal sweetness of satisfying warmth outpoured as perfume. Then his body, which he had already put in lying position hit the first spasm followed by those terrible 1 minute 15 seconds of cold chill and heartbreaking fear of the void and the wild spasms and laboured breathing, till the final absolution.

Shit! He had misjudged the wind, the bullet had torn apart his lower right brain and the hypothalamus but not the neurospasmic control section of the heart. That terrible fear, he hated his life,simply hated it but he would have to live some way or other. Nobody defeats him especially not a two bit bird.

(To Be Continued)