The South

Moving to the left and all I see is gray, no , black to my left, and white to my right, and everything in between in the sky. The sky is where I want to be. The sky is where the rats don’t live. And the noise doesn’t happen. And the men don’t reign on their British Shire horses looking down on us. “Where are you headed sir?”, asks one of the men with his face in a wrinkle.

 “I’m headed to the South side of town.”

“Why not try the North side, they have a booming agricultural society, robust buildings that can handle all sorts of weather, and the world’s best cappuccino.”

“I’m good” I reply

“I prefer the South side, with it’s delicious sweet pea soup, and the nice little jazz bars.”

The man stayed on his British shire horse, and went to speak.

“Well, good sir, I say without a lick of hesitance that the jazz bars on the South side are sub par at best. Between the shoddy construction, eclectic layout, off-putting musk….and don’t even get me started on the door knobs! They squeak and squeal at the slightest touch. Go to the North side, I insist!”

I thought for half a second.

“You see, I disagree. I think I’ll be going now.”

The man stopped me in my tracks.

“Now what makes you think the South side even compares to the North? Just out of curiosity.”

“I mean, if we’re talking jazz bars, the construction is as vintage as vintage gets. To me, this brings a certain sense of authenticity. The layout makes for a feeling of warmth, and personally, I feel at home there. Plus the door knobs are greased with Ostrich grease, which is healthy for your skin.”

“WHY THIS IS STRAIGHT BLASPHEMY!! I’LL HAVE YOU REPORTED TO KING SINCLAIR IMMEDIATELY! One doth not speak slander of the North side! Come with me!”

The man grabbed me by the arm, carefully jumped down from his Shire, and proceeded to take me to King Sinclair’s. We walked the gray path ; the black to our right and the white to our left. Moving along the terrain, it didn’t take long for the man to drift away from me. He moved further and further away, into the white. No change of pace, no look of confusion. As if he was right next to me. I tip toed the gray path, but then noticed different hues. Parts of the trail were lighter than others. You could even say they were grayer. Still tip toeing along, I made sure to follow a distinct trail. But hues would change, and I had no idea which to choose. Hues on hues on hues cascaded into a valley. A valley that I fell into ; never to be heard from again. Not another breath, not another thought. But one thing was certain in my final moments. The jazz bars of the South were undeniably the best in the land.