The Inspiration:
A story:
She was at the bar, dress the color of arterial blood, mahogany hair so rich a man would do anything to see it fanned out across a pillow.
I’m one of those men.
Like the dead man I had just left.
She picked up the tumbler swallowing the amber liquid without a flinch.
Scotch. Neat. I think I’m in love.
“Dead?”
“Ma’am, you don’t seem to be too broken up.”
She snapped open a small clutch, pulling out a monogrammed hankie to dab at her eyes now starting to water.
“Better?”
Seems the Gates of Hell are perfumed with Shalimar.
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Now, your turn.
[…] Fiction picked up this week from Darleen at protein wisdom and Smitty from The Other McCain. Read their stories, of course, and bathe in the […]
I am the *hic* shot…
The foggy evening reminds Collier of a bombed out village he forgets the name of. After a day-long slog, his unit camped in a little church. On one wall were frescoes, some depicting scenes of holy deeds, others, the torments of Hell. A corner of the wall was missing and through the hole, he could see the sky losing light. Collier remembers thinking that beyond the wall were unholy people and a real hell. Now, standing in the alley, he sees the world as a painted commotion laid flat against a wall and beyond the wall… Nothing, if you’re lucky.
The thought of her made the last of his nerve endings hurt. Without the energy to light his rolled he thought, “She’s gone for good this time.”
Her flirtations and dalliances had separated them before. But this time it was different. This time he knew there would be no backtracking to old dependencies. Knowing he was not the cause of her current situation didn’t quell the pangs of guilt in his gut.
Liberation. “For me or for her?” he wondered. As he took one last look at her limp body across the tracks, “Both.”, as the darkened alcove encompassed him.