We have another brand new contribution this week from Yesmukhammed Dosken. This short story, to me, explores the concept of sanity and loneliness. We look forward to reading more short stories from Yesmukhammed Dosken. If you want to have your writing published in The Tribe please email creativewriting@thetribeonline.com. 



Appreciation and Fascination 

As of today, my sanity finds itself on a particularly erosive shoreline between the sea of intuitions and the bank of beliefs. This café has been a hospitable refuge for a number of madmen. I can tell, for whenever I desire to speak, it so happens that the air soars from the inward hollowness of my throat, parts my frozen lips, and ascends onwards to hit the dilapidated ceiling. The ceiling resounds with cries that echo back a hundredfold. I register them not. This silence is pregnant with everything that has ever been said, and all that could have been.

My senses are as of yet unimpaired by the smell of flowers that sit patiently in my breast-pocket. As such, it observes closely the eternal ebb and flow of human bodies that surge behind the glazed pane. A magnificent movement, whose vitreous and delicate beauty would be ruined if one was to apply even a tinge of self-consciousness to it. The blind and mouthless Titan pirouettes on her toe as she drags her corpulent carcass along the edges of a whirlwind.

Time gradates, sweeps everyone, raises dust, and then dispels it. We inhale the dust and cannibalize upon the atomic particles of the deceased. Time affords us insightful glimpses here and there. For instance, just now Time immobilized the crowds, rendered their bodies and their clothes grey, and exerted itself upon the direction of my gaze to alter its angle. Lo and behold! There stands the daughter of Eve in all her earthly beauty. Her dainty figure is nebulized in thin vapours that issue gently from a manhole. Under its rusty covering, choirs of rats dedicate hymns to her noble apparition.

I command my eyes to shift and they obey me. I command my hand and it gathers itself into a fist. I delight in my capacity to rein over the atoms, the matter of my body. My will is a manifest force and it is stronger than my body’s resistance to change.

Having thus shifted my concentration, I fixate my attention on two elderly men. They alternatively move finely crafted wooden pieces along a plastic board, while the Titan, upon whose back they stand, darts through the dark emptiness at a uniform speed, swirling around the infernal pit. The old men are oblivious to the rich, silent roll of the Titan’s generous body. Like a moment cemented in one’s memory, they move away from me at the rate of twenty-nine point eight kilometres per second. Old fools; they don’t harbour even the remotest suspicion that I am relentlessly pursuing them at an equal speed.



Yesmukhammed Dosken