"Wait," I whisper. I don't know why I whisper. I'm alone.
Why speak at all? Seems as I should, maybe I've forgotten why.

The old bay leans forward over the bleeding sand, pawing at the cowering acacias.

"You know why you whisper." The statement falls like a blacksmith's block.
Though it was common, familiar.
Too common for the throat from which it erupted,
falling like a ball of copperheads from a burlap sack, throbbin' lazily in icey air.
Does that sound common? No, I 'spose it don't.

"I'm sorry, I forgot you were there." My last audible sentiment.

"No, you didn't. But please, continue with your goddamn gibberish."
The man drifts back towards the whithers,
tearin' off muscles from a broken rainbow, and suckin' 'em down raw.

Abominable was the bowler in which he placed his head,
though I myself aint one to quit on a garment,
'fore it's crossed a few thousand miles.
Eyes float towards me, grinning as he wipes knobby paws on filthy apron.

"Twenty-four years locked in twain, you and I.
And now your heaven tastes of defeat, does it not?
Lo, there do you see?" I could not see the smile merely felt it.

We glide through subtle whisp of failing light
in dust that will never again return to the feet
of the mesquite thicket mansion from which it hath risen.

"Wait. . ." I whisper. My escopeta slides to the caleche,
where forever it intends to rust. We speak no more.

Apache had quit, a monument in black sands,
snortin' out last breaths in cadence with my own.
Seared to the saddle, tied to the reins,
as if still wholly capable of one final deal.

But the hook has sunken deep,
and has pared out my soul like an abscess,
and I follow without steps to the depot at Sticks.
I follow he, a farrier by trade, common voice, who smells of trout.

a short story
"Pain or damage don't end the world nor despair, nor fuckin' beatings. The world ends when you're dead, until then you have more punishment in store. Stand it like a man, and give some back."
Last edited by Toadvine at Mar 30, 2011,