Time! Time! Come and play, keep the measure of the day!
Time! Time! Won’t you stay? Keep this moment without say!
An earthen floor. A hole in the middle of the ground, the size of giant thumbs gone round and round and round. Two concavescent creatures staring with deep intent, contemplate movement. Soiled knees and bellies for wear. One has eyes so large and black that no white remains. His head is finely tuned into the shape of an egg. The other’s head is cubed, with a disproportionate pointy little mouth that makes him look like a chicken.
Silence.
Rolling spheres glisten in the afternoon sun as they move effortlessly across the earth. The line is straight, then curves. Down it goes, while giant thumbs flicker in the air in anticipation (once again). Both hold their breath in suspense. The marble misses its epicentre (remember, this is the centre of the world).
The game is over. Chicken wins again. He did not score a single point, but he will be sure to collect his dues (in marbles) from Egg (don’t worry, he ends up losing them all in the end).
It is only 3 o’clock. The day is young. Only another 5479 days like it left. Time for another game, another adventure in some distant land, some other place to escape to and hide in; some other place to seek out.
It is only 3 o’clock, and yet the sun is already showing signs of settling in for the day. From then on, it is slow motion until the rascals solve the hidden code: ‘1/1000th of a day. Long enough’. Egg continues to lose and is eventually forced to play bad guy (he always plays bad guy). For Chicken, it is the kind of revelry he enjoys: Hero and conqueror of evil worlds.
Yes, the day is young until Egg is struck by the sudden realisation that he no longer wants to play. He is tired and wants to go home.
Chicken is sad. As much as he gets angry at Egg for not being bad enough for him to slay with a vengeance, or even for handing over only 2 of the promised 4 marbles in the event of defeat, he pleads with him to stay a little longer, that is, until he can at least go out in the pomp and glory warranted to victors.
All to no avail.
Egg has made up his mind. He is going home and begins to make his way to the end of the block, taking with him what is left of his marbles and the shredded threads of his purported villain costume with his dirty towel for a cape.
Chicken watches from a distance, mask still on, masking his tears. He ungrips his trigger finger from his weapon --wooden gun-stick falls to ground. Grubby hands reach for his eyes until a gentle stream of mud oozes down his pale cheeks. His thoracic box begins to expand and contract silently and painfully. He quivers and calls out for Egg beneath his shortened breath, in his usual croaky voice, but Egg can no longer hear him.
Egg is almost home. In the distance, Chicken makes out the shape of an opening door and a warm embrace greeting Egg. Then Chicken can no longer see Egg.
Chicken is finally alone.
It is 3 o’clock.
It is dusk, and the lazy hue hanging like a halo over St. Monica crystallises the moment.
The newspaper begins to tear. Barely able to see through the two tiny incisions, Chicken begins to make his own way home with a heavy heart and a heavy pocket filled with marbles.
C. Alberto
