ABOUT CHIME. RIGINAL.
Was old. Way way past his use-by- date. The frail heartstrings of his life's purpose hanging tentatively, moaning,straining, uncaring. Uncaring destination.Weather beaten body creases- cracks, he no longer had the energy. Had lost control over his passion for the Chinese neighbor. The spark had splintered, dissolved, diminished- bland acceptance of unfulfilled. She was too young and self possessed, ignored him.The one thing that kept him swaying in life's breeze of want was the inane picture self conjured amid his late night sly observance of her as she looked directly at him.Teasing. Rather like an all knowing woman walking down the street aware she is being desired. Self- satisfied inward glow, just scarcely glancing in acknowledgement with a turn of her beautiful head-just slightly. The Chinese neighbor knew he admired her, had desired her. She didn't care. Youth and beauty allows an uncaring attitude.
It came to him one winter's morning in the stillness. He would have her. Hook or by crook. She pouted, turned and swayed,briefly swung open her door, teased, a "look at me aren't i your untouchable one?" He desired her anew in a fleeting moment. Last throw of the love dice. Maybe it was the chill that heightened his desire. He planned well. Simple idea really. He swung into action. Repetition was the name of the game and she would be his. Nothing to lose so he loosened up. To spend a short time with her would be enough. He knew she hadn't been close to other swingers. Not by choice because the other occupant of the dwelling was an artist. Crazy son of a bearded bitching drug slurred eccentric excuse who thumbed/fingered the people surrounding his cottage. The brush stroking man leered sometimes at the Chinese neighbor. He would soon leer and act. He waited til nightfall, the best time, that was when the artist was at his lonely most drunken despot existence. Brush poised, he could see him through the window. He hated him, hated the day the artist had swung her around and briefly hooked up with her. The no hoping bastard.
So he moaned into the night, chanted jealous. Every night. She knew what he was hanging around for and sung strident trying to warn the artist of the old fool's deadly intention. To no avail. The plan worked splendidly. Inadvertently her accompanying straining high- pitched warning voice drove the nail into the artist's coffin of rotted bizarre of mind and reflex anger response he was renown and reviled for. The police had visited on occasion. Nothing much ado save for a quick lecture on neighbor's rights. "You're drunk sir go inside and sleep it off. If we have to come out again we'll..." He staggered inside and waved an empty bottle at the cop. Finally though, the plan worked! Midnight. The artist had had a bad night and the flurry of wind had the Chinese beauty and the elderly devious planner in perfect tune. Low intrusive wooden moaning and the unheeded Chinese whistler trying to chime warn hi-pitched.
The artist raged, drug drunk. Staggering hate- out of his art studio paint impregnated floor- with a knife. Partly the tinnitus he had suffered from a childhood fractured eardrum belting from his loathed drunken father but combined with the moaning old frayed chime's plan it flicked the madness switch the fretting wind night was amused innocent as it struck up a cohesive discord between the new and old. The Chinese wind chime clanged at the sudden strangle. Her beautiful verbal chords severed. Her little attached swinging lantern door abruptly bent ugly. The madman screamed, didn't have to cut the old chime tormentor down...it fell apart in his hands. The police flashed up. The artist was hanging from his own hanging cord, driven over the edge...the wind ignored his choking last gasps. "Nothing to do with me?" Looked bewildered for the usual sounds of the chimes. Settled.
She lay askew in the bottom of the rancid rubbish bin among the empty bottles, well smoked to the end 'artist infused' tobacco. The old wooden chime lay on top of her. She lay there, his frayed strings caressing her body. She heard his clunking aside just before they both reached rock bottom plastic in the bin. In fact she thought he had clunked out on the way down but she may have imagined it-"you're mine now you chiming strident young shrieking bitch...MINE!" The cops sighed. "What a loon" the younger of the two officers shrugged, watched as the body retrievers cut down the deceased artistic lifeless human lantern. "Neighbor's reckon he was driven mad by the chimes. Said he was screaming out "shut up you bastards...shut up!"after he tossed them into the bin.
The ambulance officer clucked, annoyed his anniversary celebration had been cut short. The promise shelved. He shrugged. Wiped a weary hand over his forehead, assaulted by her perfume...grimaced. Sighed "What a bitch of a night! This wind is a killer!"
MORAL? : Wear earplugs or threaten the offending wind chimes with violence. Don't get too cut up.Though i must admit some people are over sensitive to life's ubiquitous everyday obligatory chiming. Violence may have allowed an old wooden desperate chime a last hurrah. But violence solves nothing now does it? Is the answer my friends...blowing in the wind? Can't see the wooden for the rasping trees? Inanimate objects have a mind of their moan you know. Shush little Chinese chiming lantern affixed. Best to remain silent if you can. When mother nature allows.