Monkey Chased the Weasel
- from the library of prose
- brought to you by Huntington
- published in Issue VI: Dec ’07
That infernal tune begins again, as a nightmare haunting dreams or a shadow dodging his footsteps. It is somewhere in the neighborhood, just as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and every summer since he could remember. He glances at the clock. Six thirty.
Time to go.
The heat of the sun had dissipated only a little. Hot air rushes at him as he steps from the cool garage into the light of the wider world. Sounds of sneakers hitting the pavement and, further away, the music trailing off at the end of a stanza, only to strike up again with gusto.
Time to run.
Each step takes up the rhythm, each intake and exhalation of breath make up the beat. And the music continues, mysteriously, inevitably, to make itself known, quivering in the sweltering air. Where? he thinks wildly. All around the mulberry bush…
Time to seek.
Shadows of trees grow longer and the sun turns the horizon afire with the brilliance of the oncoming autumn. He comes to the corner of the block and wavers there a moment, looking right then left, discerning nothing. The monkey chased the weasel…Time to chase.
Left! And the hunt begins anew as he plunges forward—quickly, swiftly! Where? he thinks wildly, Where is it? Breath runs ragged as the pace quickens, footsteps echo, running before him down the empty street. The monkey thought ‘twas all in jest…
Time to end.
The tune winds down to its finale. He turns around, eyes wide. Pop! goes the weasel.
Finis.
Wasim § 18 Jan 2008
Very clever