Head of The Table

Burst the bubble

Tamarind blue skies, the milk white teeth glued to the reddish gums, his mischievous chuckle was addictive and contagious, the mere thought made him chuckle, the tiny fingers with a despicable tight grasp, the mere fragments of the facial features, his jawlines, those bat-like ears, the moist curly hair, his dark brown skin complexion, only when he closed his eyes could he paint what he thought was the memory. In the dark vacuum of his will, he placed the ears, glued all eyes, mouth and nose, here he unleashed his artistic potential and painted all to one picture, one who he named his heir, one he thought to be his son. But now, this very son he pictured, the 1-year-old child he saw, carrying his genes, his blood in his, all of that was going to dust. Like an eraser erasing lines drawn by pencils whether thick or thin, it somehow removes the evidence that it actually existed and no matter how hard what’s erased can’t be undone similar to the impending doom awaiting his son. Cobra’s f