I stroll lazily down the road.

I stroll lazily down the road. It’s a small road I realize, lined with shops just opening their doors at a comfortable ten o clock. It’s calm, for now anyways. As I walk I begin to hum, that’s when the magic happens. The people around me in this lazy little town get a new spark, that’s what I like to call it, a spark. The baker is first, spurred into action just by little me. Well little me and my voice of an angel. He just starts mixing, taking his dough and just throwing it back into the mixer. Soon the dough is gone but not the flour, or the butter or silverware. Outside, his clerk is still selling pastries, not noticing the commotion inside. When he’s not looking I run my hand over each and every one of those sweet fluffy clouds, I also snatch one for myself. The effect is instantaneous, after the first bite of any pastry I caressed with my soft hands, their will is mine. Well not really, they just become like my friend, the baker. By now the whole street is mine, tables are tipped over, windows broken and everyone just fighting in the street, even the plants are affected. Ivy vines strangle anyone who comes too close, and the flowers fight amongst themselves, something about the rose saying he was the children’s favorite? Or maybe the tulip bullied the daisy again. I sit by myself on the library steps just watching, it’s like a movie, or a painting. Beautiful. After I finish my pastry I stand up slowly, brush any crumbs of my spotless white suit and walk in the other direction. Back at my apartment I change into a white shirt, and white sweats to match, then settle down on a white couch to watch the news. Where I live, the news is always fun, but I rarely pay attention, after all, its not like the president would need the news to tell him what he did that day. I read a book while the reporter rambles on about some freak insanity case on littleston road, something about a baker jumping in his mixer after poisoning this morning’s pastries, they still cant think up an explanation for how the ivy vine strangled some teenager all on its own though. I yawn, then put down the book and look around my empty apartment, the buildings empty too. There used to be other people living here but I shook my neighbors hand, and sang a song to the woman who used to live downstairs and then they-. Well, I’ll just leave that up to the imagination. I laugh softly as I walk to bed, my toes squishing into the spotless white carpet as I climb onto my tall bed and bury myself in the white sheets. Then I cry, I can’t seem to help it I just cry, cursing the ground I walk on, cursing the heavens, cursing myself as I cry myself to sleep.
The next morning blinding white light wakes me from my slumber. I get up, run my hands through my hair and walk to the kitchen as if this is just another day. After I eat, (white toast on a white plate) I go into the bathroom. I am alone. I stare at myself hard in the mirror, drinking in every detail of my accursed face. I grab my arm and hold it in front of me, I can already feel my poison soaking in but for me it’s not fast enough. So I close my eyes and start to sing.