He sits in the #corner and plugs a ratty #cord into an old guitar. Strums tuneless chords as a pale sun wanders across the floor. The day gone with numb fingertips, like his life.
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He opened the fridge.
One #precious #can of beer and nothing else. Sure there was a half-bottle of mayo, but what good was that without any sandwich fodder? He thought perhaps he should get his life in order.
He decided to drink the beer.
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Far off hillside painted a #bonny gold in the morning as the sun breaks the horizon. A misty verdant sight only a few days back, now don't go too close, or the reality will ruin spectacle. For rampant flowering #weeds hath conquered that lush hill.
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They ate a #soup of rainwater and crackers, warmed to tepid by a scorching sun as the ocean played a #harmony lapping against the side of the #lifeboat. Only two survivors, yet they found a shipwreck love story.
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Getting fresh air under the #awning of my favorite dive, protected against a demonstrative rain. #Lightning flashes, painting the night clouds a dark blue like the soft moan of a tenor sax in a smoky bar back in the day. Sometimes you can't escape the blues.
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I beheld a mighty king, perhaps the most remarkable of all time. I witnessed his #magnanimous #court, where he listened to the needs of the folks most in need, for the wealthy had no seat. He held these every Tuesday, after which everyone had free tacos. What a dream.
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Ruins perch in a foggy hollow. Once a #bountiful land, despotism and greed sowed the seeds of downfall. Nature #claimed its right, tall trees and rough brush warding off the creeping evil wrought by humankind.
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Still life in black and white when reality is all grey. As we age, the #lethargy of the #shutter blurs, no matter how hard we try to keep focus. The cruel limit of time's aperture.
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Their sense of security crumbled in an instant, like being protected by some perpetual sentinel who steadfastedly yanks the cannon's #lanyard to #fire upon an enemy he cannot see, as #cataracts have settled in during his years of loyalty.
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Stateside it's #splendor. Across the pond it's #splendour. Either way, the word is precise in its usage describing the magnificence of #curly fries. Or is it #curly chips?
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Workin' on a mystery like Tom Petty, though whiskey distracts the following of leads. Hard to stay dogged when the #velocity of justice would befuddle Sisyphus. Easy to hide in the dark confines of a dive bar.
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"He's a bad dude."
"How bad can he be? I mean, a #criminal is a criminal, right?"
"I would call him #orbital. Everything around him is sucked into his delinquent gravitational pull."
"We should eclipse him."
"Your mixed metaphor is also criminal."
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#Stellar dreams crashed to Earth like so many toy rockets. His optimism converted to #contempt in a linear trek as his plans failed, though he'd dever admit his complicity. Fate made a convenient scapegoat. I pitied him each time he shook his fist at me from his porch.
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He #knowingly chose to be #heartless. Wrapped himself in a cocoon of whiskey and apathy. That way, no one could break his heart. Until one day, that #cat swaggered into his life and rescued him.
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Cats #crazed reliably each morning until their bowl I fill. Cacophony of havoc until the tinkle of kibble fills their bowl. They still think me #unfit in feeding responsibilities.
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I characterized him as an unserious dude with a tenuous grasp on veracity. He once said, "Like writing a check, speaking the truth is #bouncy. Maybe there's something there, maybe not. Who's to tell?"
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I hike deep into the #mountainous peaks, #lawless from humankind's rule, nature's will supreme. Crisp pine air fills my lungs. It's thinner up here, but that makes it more precious. It is good civilization can't perch this high.
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He fled each day to the #enchanted #kettle as the crushing nonsense of the world closed in. Those last moments of steeping always seemed the longest, but at last he had the tea which helped him #evade his troubles. Of course, the kettle wasn't magic at all.
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#Miniscule steps to unwrap the #cover-up, like plucking off pieces of an ancient sticker. Patience is the weapon of the dogged detective.
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Curious, those "men" of power. Mostly fools whose character growth stunted at about twelve when some #locunae went unfilled. Love, friendship, compassion. Like spinning the cylinder of a six-gun. Where will it land? What will it #destroy? Hopefully not all of us.
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He sat alone in his study, an untended fire dying in smoldering embers. He had long forgotten how to #pardon himself of #dark thoughts in unhappy times. So he spiraled into staring into the abyss, which had grown tired of him and no longer bothered staring back.
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The missiles launched on a Wednesday. "Hump day," as we mere mortals longed for a weekend which would never come again, only nuclear winter. What better angles we should have had, rather than those weaned on the #touch of #hatred.
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The sun hid below treetops opposite the lake, still water waiting in anticipation. A mourning dove's soft song floated like fog, taking its shift as the loons retired. Then dual sunrises exploded in sky and water, so #beautiful I #ached.
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They died alone. No one mourned, for they might as well not even been a memory. Into a database they went, so many Jane and John Does. Those poor souls now resting in the #Bone #Files.
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Self-inflicted #wounds, those deep in the confines of a #cult, #wound tight 'round the finger of a fraudulent yet sanctimonious leader. One thing they have in common, the followers and their leader: all they care about is the leader. Never has a cult had a happy ending.
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Thank you!!
Each night he retreated into the bookshelf-lined redoubts of his study and crafted a fire within a small hearth. Then, slumped into a battle-weary chair, the flames' light dancing #lambent upon watchful book spines, he drifted off, #drunk from memories.
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What #ghosts are these, who linger past memory's expiration and haunt the subliminal? Roaming the forgotten halls of the mind in #unqualified doubt, never to be exorcised by the self.
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What #pains we endure each day. The #inept are only outmatched by the vain, and often they are one in the same, conspiring to make the day insufferable. I also stubbed my little toe. Decidedly, then, I made #pasta for dinner. After all, I'd earned it.
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Most folk were good people and didn't deserve their fate, but some had #corrupt #souls and managed to avoid him. As a reaper, he didn't make the list, he just followed it. But what if he made his own list? He smiled within the darkness of his hood.
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