Heinrich missed playing mud castles under the spiny-thorn trees and trapping the green-tail birds. He missed throwing rocks at the cup-shaped birds’ nests. Now, the naked branches of trees stirred up his childhood memories. Under the unclothed branches, he rode humpback horses. Between these wind-torn branches, he planted his mint-scented tongue into the mouth of a ring-necked girl.
That night, Mommy bruised his legs for French-kissing a wire-haired girl. Papa shaved his yo-yo hair to cuddle a toothpick-legged girl. In 1926, Heinrich dreamt of a red-brick hotel. At the hotel’s site, his sweat-bathing workers had mined a yellowish-brown chain. First, the sweat-smelling workers played tug-of-war with the reddish chain. Their plate-size eyes hid that they had dug up a skull.
The builders patched the skeleton’s pelvis to the spinal bones. “It’s a five-star hotel,” said Heinrich, toying with the greyish seed covers. By now, the tear-gushing workers picked up that the bronze chain was fastened to another fleshless frame. They sang funeral songs and sprinkled sand over the smiling skull. Soon, the builders traced the spooky chain to a third cat-face skull. “The triplet skulls were fastened with brown rings,” said a builder, calming his hiccups.
“Let’s nickname it Skeleton Hotel,” lamented another builder, sipping a cupful of tears. “Fasten the grass roofs onto the trees,” said Heinrich. “The Beer Hall should face the reddish-yellow sun,” he said, sipping foamy beer from a misting glass. Finally, a heartbroken worker snitched about the scattered bones. Immediately, the brownish-yellow shirt man denied that his hotel stood on a shallow grave.
“This is where I’ve kissed my chocolate-brown sweetheart,” Heinrich said, punching kisses on Isirasanee’s pillow-soft cheeks. Later, his soulmate confessed that the trees had been notorious for hanging war prisoners in 1905. Thereafter, Heinrich built the hotel on steel bars by raising it six feet above the ground. Soon, the hotel owner suffered nightmares for three nights. He saluted the spear-throwing warriors by linking the king-size beds with metal links.
He knotted the bedspreads with black fetters. His soulmate tailored pillowcases with wire threads. The waitresses chained silvery spoons and bronze mugs with rope’s ends. The manager knotted a red pen to the logbook. Finally, Heinrich brought rusty tins, and the tips sponsored the heroes’ acre for the dug-up skeletons. Then, Heinrich engraved these words on the headstones, ‘I’m sorry.’
Footnote: Historical fiction