Photo Credit: C.E. Ayr
The two men stood in front of what used to be a home, neither quite sure what to say.
“It was a nice house,” one said finally.
“Yep.”
“Real nice inside.”
“Yep.”
“Bill put in a nice new bar.”
“Yep.”
“Real shame.”
“Yep.”
“Wonder if he’d of rebuilt?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” He scratched under his ball-cap.
The other man just shrugged.
“He loved that house.”
“Yep.”
“I’d hate to see it burn again.”
“Yep.”
“You think it will?”
“Yep.”
“Well, he ain’t the best kind to have in the neighborhood.”
“Nope.”
“I guess we’d be better off if he moved.”
“Yep.”
“Don’t need nobody poking their nose into things.”
“Nope.”
“Think he’ll talk about things?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Kinda hard.” Uttering his first two words of the morning.
“Yeah.”
“Dead men don’t tell no tales.”
They stood looking at the ruins of the house.
“Yeah,” they both agreed. “Dead men don’t.”
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A Writer's Life 