Sparks
Some stories come on mind, some stories out of heart.
Man sits in wooden, shabby chair on patio, illuminated only by a full moon above, guarding him while God sleeps. Far around is nothing, only clusters of pines, reaching up for heavens — as if they believe for everyone’s place there, man thinks.
Far around him is nothing, only cigarette butts cooling on dusty planks around his chair. And they say embers die off only alone, man thinks. Not an ember like an ember. Nah.
He ruffles his hair, let them breath cold air, frosty like a morning river, despite that light shroud over his land. You may be birth, own your own piece of earth, but what that all is for if dry are your hands. Nah.
Ahead of him, down three stairs, gravel path splits to two grassy lanes that once used to be a road. It’s long, stretching through the pines, up to seven miles or maybe nines, at the end with a node. There riders had met for three decades until everything broke. It’s not the death of horses, but death of purposes which brings deadly change, man thinks.
He sits there for the hours, until pines split moon in two halves and almost lull him to sleep. But sooner than he says goodnight, from distant crossroad few sparks shine in his sight — the visitors he awaits. He grips a shotgun he has in his lap, look up for maybe last and deeply sighs. With barrel sticked to his chin, he renounces what he has ever seen and with a pull he returns back to null.
But before the zero, this our hero says himself goodbye by words:
“I might be badass, hurt the greats, but through the all I’ve learned,
while some people warm in your fire,
while some will admire it,
there still will be those who would love
to see you burn.”
