thanks vicdoom for the prompt, “if these walls could talk.” here’s my interpretation.
the sun, in its daily plunge, casts a magnificent orange tinge across the agricultural marvel. a delicate breeze trolleys light specs of dust across the field furtively. a nude silence overwhelms the vicinity. a closer look at the crop in police-efficient assembly reveals: human fingers. of varying earthly exposure, all complete with grimy nails. they sprout from the lush stems. some of the mature fingers bear wedding bands, while some of the youthful ones bear vibrant ribbons. all together, they claw at the air. slowly. hauntingly. forcefully but with linear precision, a wide path has been cleared in the field. we see multiple crops, flattened by what could only be a road consolidator, dead, browning and wilted on the ground. alone, a man of indistinct origin walks the path. he dons an unpolluted white suit. his platinum hair, which is dreaded in the most ethnic of manners, brushes constantly with his broad shoulders. his feet are shackled by two skeletal hands that dissuade fluid movement. the man’s eyes are never to be seen observing the agriculture, he’d much rather gaze far ahead. to where the path ends. to where the donkey stands alone in knowledgeable silence. the donkey in the center of the field. a bright red light illuminates the ominous donkey’s obsidian exterior. the old man arrives by the donkey. he sheds his shackles. he mounts the donkey. the donkey collapses and dies. they have been dating for sixteen months. they have done everything but have sex. it isn’t because he didn’t trust her. after all, he hasn’t seen her with anyone. nothing was coming back to her well-worn ears about his present. they haven’t discussed anything about their pasts. she trusts him. excited that he would give her his attention knowing there were a bevy of sirens blowing themselves hoarse. if the ocean was a man-made one, full of curated exotic fish, he was the main attraction to desirous observers who swam the rainbow-tinged waters of the ocean. on wednesday, as the vexed sun strokes the backs of those engaged in meaningful labor outdoors, they decide to shed their shackles. nothing is asked. nothing is said. six months later, in response to a job at the country’s jewel of companies, he goes for a medical check-up. he sits in silence watching the two bars. a kaleidoscope of his life runs through his mind: he walks up to the building. a great wind from inside nearly blows him asunder as he flings the door open vehemently. as he peers in, his eyes can only make out pitch black nothingness. he enters. the door shuts behind him. bright lights. jazz. alcohol. smoke. sweat. something indistinct yet familiar. loose women with looser morals. looser men with much looser morals. the hottest cabaret humphrey bogart never heard of, but should frequent – even in death. this was two years prior – before he went celibate. nothing of the present enters his mind but a vision of the man and the dead donkey. he picks up the red ribbon – adorning the black top of the table with the herald of two bars. he walks out into the field to join the human fingers – bearing his own vibrant ribbon.