JUST A SAMPLE OF MY CURRENT PIECE: The sound of silence and surge of steadiness fulfilled his senses, and it happened every night. The sound of the fan blades disturbed every other second in their cyclical twine, the heavy buzz of a fat fly made its occasional way back and forth around his ears. The sounds of his heart beat were like shallow beatings of the drum that sounded far away when a tired army directed the path of battle in the war that they didn’t really want to be in; half beating. It was all a bitter reminder to him that he was not dead------ yet. Everything in his world was slow and lazy—and just plain lethargic, or so it seemed like to him. He was duly pathetic, and guilty. If he could just go back to that night; he sat there and conjectured about it as he did every night. He gulped cheap whiskey, always with three large ice cubes; the ice always hit the glass, and it makes that cold cut sound. Of course, he’d rather it be Sweet tea, but he knows how he gets with sweet tea. She used to make if for him ‘jus’ right’. She was strikingly magnificent; that dead woman. She had long black hair that shined so much that it looked like black water being sparkled by the sunlight. Her eyes got him about her first. They were like two large brown diamonds, if there were ever such a thing. She just swallowed him up. But you see, there’s no sense in thinking about how fascinating and marvelous she was anymore, or in describing it. She would never be seen at those Savannah night galas holding her petite vintage purse against her tummy. She would never be heard calling him her Huckleberry, and she would never been seen other than by memories of her in his head, and in the picture that he held in his hand all night. The memory of her haunted him and that itself was near the punishment that he was overdue for. Sometimes just thinking about the fact that she was dead exasperated him so much that he wanted to kill her all over again……………………
Posted on: Wed, 04 Sep 2013 04:18:14 +0000
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