I walk back home, alone and without the bus fare. Distancing myself from the shadows that float interminably against the drowsy sun. Where frightened boys often roam, going in circles against the long lines of epitaphs and gravestones. Puzzling over Nature's little bunkers withholding the ghosts of their fathers, over memories left hung on the spikes running deep underground, where altitudes fade from light to dark.
It's a quiet farewell, with a gentle drizzle against the air tight comfort of the neatly aligned houses. Wary mothers confined to their homes, putting kids to bed, with doors shut and windows bolted. Keeping out the homeless with water seeping off their clogged shoes.
I find shelter at the doorway of my home. Watching from safe distance the angry and the starved slogging against the sidewalks. A distant stir of wildlife beneath the undergrowth, painting scars on the mother earth like finger prints on a body. Like digging little stories in the dirt.
Inside. My Remington stares back, a steady gaze. Alphabets, hyphens, numbers beating down the ghosts, the whispers of an odd stray life on the pavements.
I empty half the bottle, and smudge the first three pages without really going anywhere. Sometime during the night a tapping sounds against the window pane. A little ghost head appears against the rising dusk.
It's a hallucination. An angst of memory blurred against the foggy lens. It has come to visit the child, the heirloom ramming down the keys. Repeating the tantrums of the past gifted through genetics. Knowing that no four acts are complete without it.
An interesting piece with wonderful atmospherics and more than a little mystery.
It's really odd how this strikes a chord, universal, I imagine, among writers, the chill and fever of, not the cause or the effect, but the act itself, the 'enthusiasms' as John Wesley's contemporaries might call them, inordinate passions for the art.
Perfect.
Nice work -
"Digging little stories in the dirt.
Inside. My Remington stares back, a steady gaze. Alphabets, hyphens, numbers beating down the ghosts, the whispers of an odd stray life on the pavements."
Especially like the ghost head. Good writing. *
A lot to like here.
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I think there's a slight slip in tense here:
"I emptied half the bottle, and smudged the first three pages without really going anywhere. Sometime during the night a tapping sounds against the window pane. A little ghost head appears against the rising dusk."
I think it should read, "I *empty* half the bottle, and *smudge*..."
as the rest seems to be in the present.
.....
Nice atmosphere created.
@Lloyd, Sam & Gary: Thank you guys for your wonderful comments and favs. Much Appreciated.
@Sally: Thanks a lot Sally for the read, and the comment. The tenses errors now stand corrected. Appreciate it. :)
A fantastic scene, here. Excellent turns of phrase, sturdy narrator, overall beautiful language.
*
@Matt: Thanks a million. Appreciate the feedback n the fav. :)
Sad, subtle, and deft. You've put me in the special space of you piece, shifted my mood. Well done. *
@Nonnie: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback. Much appreciated.
Beautifully written, your prose is stunning *
@Foster: Thank you much for the comment n the fav. Appreciate it