Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Reddit Writings 4

It has often been said that we are all one sentence away from insanity...

"What are you, but skin, blood and bones? Thoughts, feelings and emotions all tied up in a gooey, nature freindly disposable package. What makes you better than me? Different? You defend this city. They worship you. I prune this city and THEY HATE ME!"

"Why do I kill? Why do I maim, torture and use my cell phone in theaters?! That's an easy answer."

"We are alone."

"Utterly and terribly and wonderfully alone. Sure we say we have family, have friends and lovers, but what use are they when your drowning in an ocean? Maybe as rafts, until the sharks start circling. Then that's it! Bye bye. You're kaput and everyone forgets about you after a year. YOU DIE AND THERE IS NOTHING LEFT!"

"I kill them to put them out of their misery. Sure they may beg for mercy, but I grant them the kindest mercy. The utter release from the fact that we are alone. "

"But people like you and me, we put a mark on this world. No one will forget us."

"And I know you'll always be there for me, two peas in a pod you and me! Two bats in the belfry!"

"As long as one of us is alive, we'll never be alone. HAHAHAHAHA"

(More after the jump!)

Something happened here once. Or something is about to happen. What is it? (Inspired by the above image)
Cold Spring. The greens are beginning to show, but they aren't really green. They're that dead, sad, green that plants have after the snow melts and is drunk by the dirt. The green is complimented by the brown leaves that have yet to deteriorate from fall. They might have been yellow, red or orange once, but not they were shit brown.

Asher makes his way through the woods, jumping at every stick that cracks beneath his boot. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to do this, but when Lonnie came knocking at the door again...Lonnie always knew. Knew too much for his own good.

The sleeping trees had yet to bring about buds, and so the entire forest seemed frozen in an almost deathlike state. It reminded Asher of how his mother looked on that hospital bed. Turned into a shadow by the chemo, just barely in between life and death.

Asher shivered.

Finally the trail led to a clearing and in the center the well squatted like a massive toad. Moss spread along one side and reached into the dark void within. That smell of the forest, of vegetation, ceased almost as soon as the well came into site, replaced now with the staleness reserved for leaky basements.

Asher moved quickly to the well and looked down. Darkness. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to bring up the past, but Lonnie was extorting him and Asher wouldn't stand for it any longer. Lonnie was the only other person, besides his mother, who knew what happened to his father. Knew that he now resided in the well before him.

What Lonnie didn't know, was what the well could do.

Asher shakily stood on the rim of the well, on the brink of a mouth that seemed to drink light and warmth, and held out his hands. The memories started slowly as if being pulled from tar. Asher running in the woods, Christmas eve, his feet numbed from his soaked through socks. His father hot on his tail, whiskey on his breath and stick in hand.

The well had just been there and then he was on the edge and his father sneered. It happened like a miracle. After, he dragged his father's body to the well and dumped it in along with the weapon the well had provided.

He felt the Colt in his hand and his fingers wrapped around it. The same one that brought down dad. The one that will bring down Lonnie.

Dad wouldn't be too lonely down there for much longer.

A half blood encounters a full blood

The spit stings my cheek. Tobacco stained saliva dribbles down his lip. Must be chewing some dust with it, just for an occasion like this. Quickly, a dainty white handkerchief appears and wipes the foul substance away from his lips. He tucks it back into his shirt.

"Now leave, boy."

I set my drink down, some of the man's spit has splashed into it, otherwise I would have finished it for a little more liquid courage. He was tall, gangly. Suspenders, nice woven straw hat, red beard, freshly cut. Young and looking for a fight.

"This fine establishment accommodates-" I begin, keeping my anger and fear in check. His fist pops up like a child's toy, but it sure doesn't feel like one. I stumble off the stool, but use the momentum to stand straight. He shakes his hand in the air as if to get the pain out, dust falls from it. His mouth spreads into a grin.

"Woo. Tough little one, huh? Smart too. 'Est-ab-lish-ment?' who taught you that? Your mom or your dad, half-breed? I assume it was the white half. The black half was too busy being a rutting, stupid animal."

My hand slips down to my holster. The grip of my dad's pearl revolver feels like coming home. Gives me strength just to touch it. My left eye is beginning to swell. The man watches my hand and begins to laugh.

The gun is out, there is no sound. The shots fly through the grinning ass like he was never there. My bullets are nothing to him.

"A dead little mulatto, trying to hurt one of the living. Hoo boy." He takes my seat and tosses my drink on the ground. The bone dust that lets me interact with the world flakes off the cup and the gravedirt brew spills out. He takes a bullet out of one of his pockets followed by a small container of dust. He coats the bullet liberally in it.

"I'd reckon you'd get to steppin', boy, before this bullet kills you for a second time. Finish what that noose around your neck started." There is no mirth in his smile or humor in his voice.

All eyes in the bar are on the pair of us. White dead drinking with white living. Even in death, there is no escape from ignorance.

"I may be dead now, sir, but someday you will be too. And I'll find you and return your graciousness." I holster the phantom gun. His laughs follow me out of the bar.

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