Murphy hates Halloween so God Stepped in and Took him Back to 1965

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Mumbai, Maharashtra, India., October 31, 2022 – It was the 27th of October, everyone was dressing up for Halloween, Murphy was already dressed with a paper sword in one hand, and a water bottle in another, walking three steps back, four steps forward, for now, what was the 26th ride. He had to complete 30 rounds he told his mother he forgot where he was, he began back from sixteen, three steps back four steps forward, three steps back four steps forward, on a typewriter he typed, time was still young, it worked in shuttlecocks rather than a shiny ball at Lord’s, it was 1965, a typewriter typed.

His mother interjected “Is it for Grandpa? Write him one. Grandpa hates how they turn every crisis into a holiday so man turns mogul one more than another, one after one!” Murphy scratched tightly tailored pale brown pits off his skin he’d done it enough through the night to prepare perfect scabs, for Rachel’s dinner on Halloween night.
He yelled, ‘Confirm, click, say I’m a villain’, slicing electricity with paper cuts, he typed, four steps back three steps forward, four steps back three steps forward four back three for…

“Dear Murphy this is me, god…” tutted out his long letter from the other side, of the traffic jam, some words might be seen others lost, these cars, women with baskets, cyclists in a rush, don’t read, they go places on rules and ties, but read as many words as typed, let these palms grow big and heavy, these eyes grow wide, they’ll burst out pupils, put those back inside, once they’re cleaned out, thank Ma, then the garage, don’t cross the road, instead walk to Sunset Boulevard, holding a cigar, the one Grandpa smoked as he despised mankind, tell a tale to a pretty girl don’t bother if she’s listening or not, tell her three stories, pick any of choice, make sure smoke circles the rings of her hair so they settle at her temples perfectly tight;
until tears bleed these pretty eyes, then tip the hat, walk back home, four steps forward three steps back, wear the tuxedo saved up for prom, the one that got too tight, and cover these sleeves of scabs.
Tell mom, that girl- “I’ll one day marry her!”

Then begin life, maybe she’ll be there again, in a marketplace or by the boulevard or there’ll be a belle from Argentina whose name will be the first name (and last name) ever pronounced from this pink lie, spelled totally right.

Happy Halloween Murph.

With love,
dear God,
sweet child of mine.

About Brain Bristle
Brain Bristle is a think tank for children on the spectrum of autism to push them into education, giftedness, neurotypicality, and genius of some kind so they can live socially, and emotionally rested lives. We run out of Mumbai, India, to create a new layer of change and disruption through children who have been historically oppressed, and labeled autistic/ a burden. With Brain Bristle, we hope our voice and advocacy and a minuscule change in the larger structure will begin creating waves of change the world over.