Jimma

Biking along the new trail near the Danube river, Jim was contemplating his life so far. There wasn`t much interesting so far, but he managed to be free of many bonds modern society puts on young studs: jobs from 9-17h, marriage or fiance, credit debt. He considers himself a stud, but for that to be true others would have to have their say. The fog was thickening  as he was dreaming of nice warm room with some hot beverage and a sleeping beauty waiting for him. Not necessarily sleeping, but beauty that was a must. The river so close, but very distant as the fog like from that scary movie he remembered and din`t appreciate - he was too young to watch horrors. His elder sisters make fun of him, of course, and it still haunts him, hiding behind the couch with occasional hand or two touching or grabbing his hair, his face, his back. 'It is awful to have older sisters", he whispers into the white night, holding his winter cap down on his fingers. If he had a normal job, not this adventure fee at the local company for natural preservation. His task was simple, check for poachers, animals in distress and lost teens in the woods. The only problem was going back on such cold November nights when everybody and everything is inside, holding close their dearest. Freedom is sometimes very lonely, his thoughts were philosophical as he could barely see the path in front of his front tyre. Passing by a new bridge, usually lightened up, he wasn`t sure where he was. There was no sound anywhere around, not to say any living thing in close vicinity. He was all alone in the big vast  cold world. "Anybody out there", he screamed, getting off his bike, walking scarcely a few steps. He was afraid to venture further as he realizes - I could be horse riding a cloud, smiling to it. Next moment, there was nothing to smile at, as he clearly, but not so, saw long white hair passing by. He turned, and turned again, spinning around. The hair was gone, but of the fog, he was sure it is still here. "Yes, I am here", the female voice stopped him in his tracks as he was just about to return to his driving vehicle. He was out of words, slowly turning head right and left, very frightened. So scared, he wasn`t sure for what he is wishing for - to be just his imagination, to be modern witch, to be somewhere else, he wished for it, but his skills of transferring from a place to a place was just wishful thinking, to be secret unsleepy beauty which he rescues or she rescues him, it was alright for him to change classical fairy tales as long as there is a happy ending. Like always none of his wishes came out, in his life there was any magic stick, he wasn’t Harry Potter. To run, that was quick thought, but where. There was fog all around him. On one side there was a river, on the other muddy ground with few trees and army barracks abandoned some years ago with who knows what kind of wild and dirty animals inside, spiders and porcupines. Whilst he was contemplating his next, very important move, he realizes, someone has stolen his bike. Those motherfucking thieves are capable of unbelievable tasks. Last bicycle of his they nicked whilst he was under the shower. One must wash his dirt after many hours driving through forest paths listening to “Country Rode”, a famous song by John Dallas[1] and the one before that, he thanked to whoever was crazy to rid him off an old, awkward piece of s**t on two tires, laughing stock of the neighborhood. “You don’t need a bicycle, you have something better.” Was it waves of the river, some silly animal or even his subconscious somehow got through and spoke for the first time. Still wondering, he saw that white hair cruising around, flying. It was a witch, real live one. Not live actually, who knows in what state, but it was her, she stole his bike, driving around him, destroying brakes and jingling with it. “Hey now”, a few words left his mouth as to say something. When she got off his bike and entered his field of vision, he was afraid, very scared walking back. “Take the bike.” “I don’t need it, I have something better.” He was sure he would see her on the broomstick next, flying away in the foggy death of the night. Instead the motorcycle came as she jumped on it taking his hand. They were driving very fast, but he didn’t feel any cold. He didn’t see anything through the fog and her long hair playing on his face. Lack of fear and immense freedom within as cause of the first feeling liberated all his inhibitions. He was screaming and yelling, climbing on top of her, scaring wild animals along the road. Eventually they stop on some lone summit, the one everybody has told him to stay away – it was haunted. Like in the stories of Lovecraft, strange sounds and creatures were coming from the shed when the Moon was full with dogs and jackals barking out. He explored it during a day, seeing strange footprints on the ground, but never reached the top as the dogs were too afraid to continue. He was sure that his predecessor, a very old and gray man, exaggerated accounts of monsters coming out during darkest nights, but there was something in his stories, something one can’t make up. [1] John Denver