Not much left from a life of ink-stained fingers and bad food. He’d been a reporter for the Washington Times, but he could have been on the Centerville Herald. The remains were the same.
Tommy looked at the items on John’s desk, taking in the bits and bobs along with memories of his mentor.
“Take what you want,” the editor said. “A new body will be there Monday.”
He should quit less this be his remains as well.
With one hand, he slid the items into the trashcan and walked out of the office.
Gone
This was a fine fettle. Like “Croatoan” if one wanted to think of it that way. He didn’t really, but he could tell the road to the ranch hadn’t been used in years. Had she left this message here for him?
She’d said she’d wait, but that obviously went out the window once he was locked up. His cellmates had warned him, but he had stupidly believed her.
Tossing his cigarette away into the dust, he turned and started hiking back towards the main road. One day he would find her. One day.
Words – 99
“Croatoan” – One of the only clues left to the disappearance of the Roanoke Colony in 1590.
The house was dark, empty of the long forgotten sounds of life. Had it been dark when the family lived there or had it been filled with light and love and laughter?
He touched the yellow crayon with a finger-tip; lifted up the fragile photograph of the man. Had he ever seen him before? Face all angles; body skin over bones; the living dead?
What if the phone rang, calling for somebody who no longer existed?
Outside the thump of boots, the “Alles Klar?”
He let go of the picture. It fluttered to the floor, a bird with broken wings.
“Alles Klar.”
Please excuse my translated German if it is grammatically incorrect. The phrase is “All Clear?”
“We’re going to be late for the funeral,” Susan nagged, pulling her coat tighter around her body.
His forebrain heard ‘blah,blah, blah, blah,’ but somewhere in the back of his mind, in the small primitive reptile brain, she was heard.
“I don’t know if that is how they do it,” it said because the primitive brain knew how to protect.
‘Who?”
“Do Jews have funerals?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“Wouldn’t it be Allah’s sake?”
Rolling her eyes, she stormed away.
“What,” he asked, bewildered.
PHOTO PROMPT Dale RogersonHe approached the black garbage bag. Police officers weren’t supposed to be afraid, but the recent murders went beyond his understanding.
It was a small bag, so a child.
Stepping across the street and into the snow bank beyond, he slit the plastic, turning his eyes away from the gore bound to spill across his sturdy black shoes. Please, please, please don’t let the child be disemboweled, but he didn’t believe in God, not after all these years.
He looked back, plastic plates and cups scattered around his feet.
He began to cry.
The fires were burning now, popping up in various places in the valley below. Soon her prey would be flushed and it would be over. And yet, nothing came and nothing came and nothing came.
She moved into the valley, determined for this to end. The fires, no longer hers, flashed to life, surrounding her in an instant. And beyond, nothing’s eyes, and nothing’s eyes and nothing’s eyes.
Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly…..and an interesting parlor it was, thick with the smells of machines and dyes, the loud clacking of a thousand and one spools running in synchronicity.
“I was sad to hear of your father’s troubles with the law.”
“See the intricate way the threads interweave,” said the son, motioning the man closer.
“Yes….”
Closer.
“Hummmm…”
With one touch, Mr King fell into the machine, spun into a web of a thousand and one spools.
PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu BhojnagarwalaHe walked into the run-down store. “Evening. Nice planter.”
“You want that piano, son? Ain’t worth nothing.”
He frowned. “Did I say that?”
“Gonna take a while to fix that one.”
He nodded distracted. “Not much chance of that.”
“You know who played that piano? Fats Waller.”
“Really?” He glanced back out the window at the piano, seeing it through different eyes “How much?”
“Son., you make that piano play again, you can have it for free.”
“Thanks,” he said, holding out his hand.
They shook and music history was reborn.
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“Thoreau? Wasn’t he in Maine or something?”
“Massachusetts, actually.”
“So he didn’t have a thing in New Mexico?”
“No thing.”
“No Deli?”
“No.”
“So what did he have?”
“Walden’s Pond.”
“He sold Coors from a pond?”
“No. He was a writer and philosopher learning to live a simpler life. It’s a famous book.”
“Red Mountain Market and Deli?”
‘What?”
“The book.”
“No. Walden’s Pond.”
“So New Mexico must have been really different for him.”
“He didn’t……. yes, I’m sure New Mexico was a shock after Walden’s Pond.”
“Cool. I didn’t know Grant had a tire store….”
