A cigarette on the stairs

Aside

About the unnoticed beautiful things.

In passing

She sat on the old crumbling stairs amid the busy human traffic of M Street. Dressed in a form-fitting but utterly utilitarian black outfit, gorgeous brown tresses falling over her shoulders, and a smouldering cigarette in a tired hand. Her figure was all languid curved and rounded lines, yet this wasn’t a passionate figure of a romantic painter. It was an exhausted body yearning for rest and comfort, but resigned to the mere fact of carrying on.

She sat alone in the rushing river of people. High fashion surrounded her, expensive makeup, designer shoes, all in stark and self-concscious contrast to how simple and worn she looked.

And when a bus pulled up and separated us, she disappeared; the most beautiful girl on M street disappeared with quiet grace unseen.

Desire for death

Aside

A lover’s memory.

Ah

I feel I could die, right now, and it would be the most exquisite, wonderful, gentle death. I would welcome it with joy and humility. It would be the perfectly placed period at the end of the most fabulous story.

I would go without agony or regret. I would smile and close my eyes, my mind swishing, drowning in your fragrance, cuddled in your warmth, the world now detached and I adrift. Simple, final.

With you, my life does not reach a climactic high, does not crest a staggering mountain top. It arrives at a graceful resolution, the sweet words of the very last answer to all the questions, the long-sought peace at the end of all the struggles.

The Master’s last

The wind wandered freely through the house. It looked through the stacks of letters, checked under the table cloths and behind the curtains. The myriad rooms were thick with layers of history.  The night’s shadows dressed these histories and memories with nostalgia, sweet and seductive.

The old Master stood in front of the fireplace, reading over some weathered pages. When the wind made its way through this room – remembered to gently embrace the Master and caress his neck – he smiled, recognizing the autumn’s touch and fragrance.

His student, a young man, sat attentively at a large table, which was adorned with volumes, pages, candles, and various vessels containing wine. He was patient, and studied the old Master with reverie.

Time was passing largely in silence. Only the house and the wind spoke on occasion, exchanging creaks and breaths. The Master interrupted his reading, rubbed in his eyes, and smiled again. He knew the autumn wind wasn’t here to pick at the draperies. It was the very last autumn, and it was bringing with it the final winter.

He sighed and threw the papers into the fire. It lapped them up, jumped up. The student leaped toward the fire, screaming in panic, hands outstretched toward the precious pages, but the old Master restrained him with a mere gesture.

“Youth knows so little of love.” He paused, closed his eyes, and seemed to kiss a memory. “Don’t live through the pages. Don’t remember in portraits.” The papers curled up, burned up in bright flashes. “My memories may have been faded and warped by time, but they are the only thing that feels real now.”

Wouldn’t be a Haley

Aside

Also a rewrite from memory. Should have some new sketches for this storyline though :).

Spare

They circled the young boy like sadistic coyotes. Ezra pinned himself against the wall, breath shallow, nose bleeding, body aching and bruised. The most painful, however, was the paralyzing realization of the quick and fatal failure. The journey from his mother’s home was bleak and brief indeed.

“Didn’t know they made you guys so young,” the bandit smirked and flipped Ezra’s father’s badge between his fingers. “No matter. Not the youngest I’ve taken.” He produced a long knife from within the folds of his cape. “It won’t hurt for long.”

The strike was swift and nearly silent. The ruffian moaned and stumbled forward into the wall next to Ezra, fumbled the knife and slumped down. His companions instinctively reached for their blades, ready to turn the tight corner into a bloodied battlefield.

“Back off, scum. The boy is mine.”

The woman’s voice froze them in place. They knew this voice, its weight and command. The boy with the badge was a joke. The lady with the badge was the kind of risk you simply didn’t chance. The men hesitated just long enough to make sure no one would say they ran off, disappeared quietly and quickly, leaving the woman and Ezra alone.

Keeping herself in a murky shadow, the woman silently studied the boy who looked up to her with eyes full of hope and fear.

“Put that badge away and don’t show it to anyone,” her grave voice thudded like a brick.

“But I’m just looking… want to find…”

“Not a suggestion, boy.”

Another heavy silence. Elsewhere, the tavern was returning to its usual level of noise and bustle.

“Come on, I’ll feed you,” her voice finally let some warmth through. “I’d tell you to turn around and go home, but I know it won’t do any good. You wouldn’t be a Haley if it did.”

This town of ours

Aside

I think depression is better for my writing productivity than happiness.

Slingin’

The blinding sunrays filled the dusty street. They lit up a generally dull street. Gray houses. Gray dirt. A rare glint in the scene is a tiny speck of brass casings.

A man is sitting on a porch. Hat’s brim shifted low over the eyes that are narrow slits. His posture is casual, relaxed. There is no tension, just a the dull black steel of pistols in his lap and calloused fingers on the triggers.

Death doesn’t stalk this town. It takes up residence on Main Street.