Well?

Beads of sweat dripped down his nose and on to the barrel of the gun. The gun that pointed out into the arid landscape, as if it were a long, black finger eagerly searching for a victim. The man did not move from his perch. It may be that he could not have moved had he wanted to, but he didn't. He was born to be there in that crook of the hill with a bolt-action rifle pinned underneath his arm. He was the Death-Bringer. The Grim Reaper. The man always one trigger pull away from sending another man to oblivion.

Only this victim would not be a man.

I'm not sure if this deserves more development. If I feel the same about it tomorrow I'll write some more. Who knows?

The City isn't This One

There's a city out there built for me and me alone to call it home would be a luxury I can't afford to not foot the bill for this dream I feel rising inside my throat is clenched tighter than before I was blind as a lost man without a map in a city built for me a city as lost as me and all I can see are the green walls that reach to the sky with a barrel of a gun staring them down the deepest ditch you have ever seen.

Three Seconds

I think I have three seconds left to live. Three seconds. That’s not very long. Hardly long enough to do anything really. I can’t imagine what I could even get done in that amount of time. I mean, I couldn’t get much done anyway. Wings aren’t good for much except flying. Mine aren’t even good for that. That’s the reason for the whole “three seconds” thing. Though, by now it’s probably two seconds. Boy, I’m thinking fast. Like, these are a lot of thoughts for a mayfly to have in three seconds. Who am I kidding? I’d be amazed if any mayfly has ever had this many thoughts in a whole lifetime. One second now. A single solitary second. What even is that? I think they’ll be sad for me. I really do. They’ll say I died young. They’ll say I lived a good life. A good, three-second-long life. They’ll say that the way I fell really showed what a free spirit I had. My free spirit isn’t helping me defy gravity though. This is it, I guess. Me and my free spirit have a date with the pavement. I wonder what I should say last. What should my last thought be? What intellectually-stirring quote should I be known for? I want my name to be remembered. I guess I need a name. A good name. A name that sounds strong and bold and reminds people of my heroism. Like, Danny. Yes, that’s it. Call me Danny.

They don't have a name for this, but I do.

I guess that I should sleep.

Is all that I think

When she has nothing else to say to me

I guess I'll lie down

It's all I want

Whenever I open up my mouth

I guess I'll not leave

It seems so nice

To have the company of these earthen walls

I guess it's done

My sleep is nearly as deep

As I once was tall

Autumnal

The day was the sixth day of the month of September. The air was cooler than normal for that time of the cycle of the seasons. This was hardly a bad thing. Fall was calling out and announcing its arrival. "Are you prepared?" It asked the unprepared people who were still blissfully unaware of summer's approaching adieu.

The night was one for dreams of futures and falling leaves. No reminiscing here. No memories. Give no thought to your past days, weeks, or years. Find a love more stable than summer flings. There is nothing here that isn't here. No other thoughts to think. No other air to breathe. Only these leaves settling on you with their colored wings. Only the crisp wind and the smoke of fires sending up towers to the night sky.

The boy was not so much a boy, but hardly could be called a man. He was glad of his beard and its warm hugs. Still more glad of headphones singing of sycamore trees and colors that lacked. He felt carpets of crunching leaves beneath his feet. He wore red flannel for the warmth of the thing. He held a cup of tea for the steam rising from its top. He clutched the hand of a girl for the love that reached out to him through her fingers. It was all there, waiting to be noticed by him and impossible to ignore.

The tree was a home away from home with golden robes of leaves adorning its frame. They met there. The twigs with their brittle snaps. The couple with their flourishing love. The cup of tea and his flannel shirt and her warm sweater. This is where home met them with open arms. The sun would visit them on occasion, acting the part of a pleasant house-guest. 

The day was nearer to a dream than a surety. The night was mostly imaginations bubbling over into the stark depths of real life. It was still there, just out of limb's reach. Perhaps, if they just could bide their time. Maybe the day was nearer to fingers entwined together than fingers crossed. And maybe autumn longed for them as they longed for it.