Puppet-Blood-Lighter by Kholoud Hussain

Puppets, a Lighter, and Itches for Blood…

Amid the dusk of night, pacing slowly around the corners of the uncanny house was the enigma of the town. Nearly fifty of age, this senile man was the mystery people talked about. His story, or rather his series of stories, was the folk tale that paced around the tongues of the town’s fokes. Solitude was all he ever asked from them ever since he moved into this town, yet solitude is the one thing he never got. Constellations of handmade dolls and puppets filled the once bare shelves floating around the room. Their entwined strings creating a rather complex figure; a figure whose silhouette seems like a spectre of deceased nightmares and elapsed memories. Embellishing the void at the core of the room was the fear of control and mechanism, denoted by a mattress whose beginning and end are indistinguishable. Lost amidst the paradoxes he created for himself, an image of flames lures him into temptation. The idea of fire and ashes, of auburn blazes combusting and scorching, renders a flicker of psychotic behavior. With the wooden and fabricated eyes of the soulless puppets staring into his soul, this simple spark summons its neighboring demons, scattering across in leaps and bounds. His mind, now a wild jungle, roars with hunger and thirst for insanity. Long there he stood, as a raven slowly peaks in through the lone window, peering at the distressed man with its inquisitive eyes of a devil. Growing rattled by the mere second, the old man shuts his eyes, eager for clarity. Instead, metaphors of spiders webbing their threads into his clouded mind shine among everything else. Alas!
Are these symptoms of growing insane? Is madness the aftereffect of such peculiar ideas? Must it be that being stirred by such desolate thoughts causes those around to only think about sanctuaries? Isn’t madness the sincerest sanity after all?
And with a labyrinth of collisions, tumbling with the heat of the momentum, the old man shall clasp his hand around the silver lighter. In a meager second, heat in shapes of lightning bolts starts immersing from the simple box of infinities. Awed by the glazes of the lighter, the shaggy being drops his last thoughts onto the ground, leaving the room engulfed with fire. The flames rise, tearing the fabricated puppets from each other, turning them into ashes. Scorching his skin, singeing the woof upon which the house was built from. Alas!
The smoke billowed black across the town for days. No sirens were heard of except the screeching noises coming from the house. For decades, the ruins of the house were left ignored and unacknowledged by everyone except the stories that were told about the owner, the puppets, and the arousing blood stains. Many talk about a walking puppet found wandering around the house solely, with pigments of blood decorating its fabricated body. The puppet may often cry for help in its agonizing day where it recalls all that was lost, yet no man dares set a foot anywhere near the fifty meter radius of the haunted house. Alas!

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