fearfighter

"rubbish. all of it," he cried. "and what are you doing with the chicken knife?"

"nothing. uh, homework," in the shining armour, i deadpanned. a pan lay on the floor, dead with all the stab wounds that were once inflicted upon it. rubbish was in the middle of the room, a few steps back, staring at him in the night gown.

he fought his fears to earn a living. mostly chicken that thought they were crows.

i smiled as i gave him the dog that i once called mine. mine was 3-years old. older than the universe we lived in. older than the sorrows that had engulfed him through the depths of his fears.

he stopped crying. but he was still drooling.

“i thought people only drooled when they were sleeping,” i told him.

“life is but a dream,” he said all mysterious, and i hugged with the layers of our clothes and a dog between us. i felt warm and cozy. the dog did too. he licked his nose as a gesture that he did.

“guess we all be drooling anytime now,” i said as i noticed i was not only crazy and tired but also hopeful.

“yup,” he said tiredly, “and we'll make a ‘pool of drool’ or something.”