It's Edgar Allan Poe's 200th death anniversary. A tribute to his drunk stories: my magical realism.
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She was waiting for me like usual under the clouds of mushroon. It was an addictive routine, something a fool would gladly do for a lifetime. I was turning into that fool, and I knew it even before it started.
I swallowed the air of the morning as I gently avoided the crowd busily minding their own affairs. An old fermale penguin dressed as a nurse bumped my right shoulder while a young man took my left leg with his left cane as he walked by. I had to pause and resume my urgency. I said I was sorry, and they didn't take notice. Everyone seemed to be against me all along, but I had to move on.
I swallowed another gulp of air with some streams of Nimbus clouds: A cigarette puff from the canine beggar who was sitting and staring at me blankly. Trying to ignore the rediculous sight, I looked up while waiting for the signal light. The sky changed from red to green, and the crowd crossed the forest of flees. I exhaled, covered my ears and mouth with my scarf and proceeded with a run.
She was waiting for me like usual. Her hair flowed like a river wetting her neon-blue shoes. She smiled at my sight. She was lovely as usual.
My run turned into a walk. I was too close to see details of her skin. She was creamy fair as always and her bright green eyes emphasized her lovely features.
I took a pause when I was an inch away from her. I cannot touch her nor hold her. Between us is fine glass unwilling to be broken.
It was our last moment together. Before we can speak, my heartbeat became treacherous, became violent and made a loud rhythmic noise. The glass slowly became opaque like a water being swallowed by osmotic milk.
Before I lost the sight her I shouted "I LOVE YOU".
The sky turned red, all being froze and I was left staring at a white wall. I was a fool no more, and a being no less.
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