Toccata and fugue for kite-string ensemble

I got woken up one night by the sound of an animal screaming. The cats had cornered another mouse and by the time I got to the kitchen it lay limply on the stone floor, still warm, but ragged and mangled. I picked it up and held it in my hands, wishing I could breathe the spark of life back into it. Usually I get to them before the cats have decided enough is enough, whisk them up out of the reach of furry little paws, and let them loose again outside the house, while inside, the cats are still crouched expectantly around the spot where the mouse last hid. This time, I had been too late.

On a whim, I superglued the ragged wounds up and tried blowing warm air over it while cupping it in my hands, much as I had seen it done in "The Green Mile", but I didn't have the magic spark to jumpstart a stalled nervous system. My whim grew wilder still, as I looked out of the window at the turbulent clouds and intermittent moonlight. Rummaging through the toy room, I found my old stunt kite, and back out in the corridor donned wellington boots. Hands fumbling and all a-tremble, I tore off strips of gaffer-tape and fastened the lifeless little body to the fabric of the kite, then pulled on rubber gloves and stepped outside into the darkened road.

The wind caught at my dressing gown as I trotted backwards down the tarmac. I briefly thought of going back inside and getting dressed, or at least putting some pants on, but the kite was soaring now, up above the roofline and jagged chimneystacks, and the wind gave a steady pull as the kite rose out of the ground-level eddies. I let the lines spool off the handles until my fingers sensed that only inches remained, and I braked the last few turns into the lock slots. The pull on the lines grew stronger still as I dragged back and lofted the kite towards the low-looming clouds; the singing of the wind in the strings rose higher to a wavering peak, and I waited, holding my breath, for the lightning flash. "Live!", I screamed, "Live, damn you!". Eerie blue light suddenly flashed all around me, bouncing off the roof slates and casting shimmering sparkles up the shiny nylon lines, and then a voice said "Would you mind telling us what you think you're up to, Sir?"

So, after I had finished explaining to the officers the fine distinction between whimsy and being out of one's head on classified substances, I wrapped the still-lifeless corpse in a shroud of silver gaffer-tape, and laid it to rest in the hedgerows. Beauty and cruelty dance together like reunited lovers at the end of the masked ball.