The quiet of the ocean was deafening as duke sat on the silky sand.
He looked out onto the ocean and thought about the shores opposite this one that he'd sat on and had this same moment picturing this same shore.
On other beaches, however, the towers of tokyo rose behind him; the minarettes of Kathmandu enclosed him like great looming dragons of protection. He pictured the children of the streets of hong kong being recruited by shady teenagers who brought their futures into a world of organized crime.
At last thought, he remembered the Seine and the woman he'd left behind on the land locked city of paris. His book sat beside him and dug into the sand with these and all his memories. The day grew colder and a pain in his left arm brought the darkness. What a wild life we have for it all to dwindle so stupidly. He took one last swig of kaluha and slumped over into legend.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
A quiet way to die
A silent hour exists from 3 to four in any small town. The deafening tone of a ringing fills the ears of any passerby as not even a pin can be heard for lack of people to drop it. Some call it the witching hour and others call it magic time. There's probably life going on somewhere. The bugs that never rest or some tumescent policeman sleeping in a car in the knowledge that his computer will beep if anyone speeds by and at this hour his odds on that not happening are good. So the world is asleep.
Those who are no good are are awake in their houses. Insomniacs, drug addicts and deranged, driveling derelicts, doomed to drone on about the daft, dark alleyways of devious criminals. It is in these minds that the shadows truly come.
The writer, with his pen, kills more people than the average murderer does in his life time. c'est la vie.
In his magnum opus, one such driveler realizes the number of men he's killed off in his fantasies and reality and fantasy begin to mesh like fusion in a reactor. His world begins to implode and become the things of his stories.
The shining, silver revolver sits on his desk like a bad cliché from film Noir.
At 3:35 AM, the witching hour, the gunshot makes a whisper and nobody knows.
Those who are no good are are awake in their houses. Insomniacs, drug addicts and deranged, driveling derelicts, doomed to drone on about the daft, dark alleyways of devious criminals. It is in these minds that the shadows truly come.
The writer, with his pen, kills more people than the average murderer does in his life time. c'est la vie.
In his magnum opus, one such driveler realizes the number of men he's killed off in his fantasies and reality and fantasy begin to mesh like fusion in a reactor. His world begins to implode and become the things of his stories.
The shining, silver revolver sits on his desk like a bad cliché from film Noir.
At 3:35 AM, the witching hour, the gunshot makes a whisper and nobody knows.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
