Glass twinkles on wet asphalt in the glow of a failing streetlight. Steam peels free from the crumpled chassis, slinks along the hood, swathing the vacant, staring headlights with a foggy rheum.
The scene implies motion, turmoil, trauma, and noise, making the absence of such characteristics all the more(more) palpable. Instead, a quiet stillness seems to settle over everything, gentle and slow, like pollen scattered from sheavess of grain upon reaping.
It seems like someone should come. No one does. Or perhaps they do, but in my cloudy fugue I can't see them. An orange tabby probes the fringes, stepping daintily. As I step closer, it acknowledges me in the way cats do, as if pondering whether or not I might really be there, and not overly concerned with the result.
As I reach into the jagged maw of the passenger window, I find that I am not afraid. Instead, a hollowness, like I am falling out of myself. I touch the flesh, cold already. The head tilts toward me, almost nonchalant. The face is too familar, yet as I look I find myself forgetting it.
The flesh of the world falls out from beneath me. The moment stretches out into infinity, geologic, poingnant, as if all that was and all that ever will be must find its meaning here and now, or be left in waiting. (less)
Dingoes in the hall, ravenous blenders of teeth and fur. It's cool mate.
Gun to his head, his mouth. Teeth chattering porcelain chimes against steady steel and polycarbon mold.
Squeeze the trigger, paint the walls. A click(more), a bang, a splash, a drop. A heartbeat echoing down the twisting curving lurching hallways. A mere instant of chaos and silence. It's cool mate. It's business.
He picked up the meth, the money, and a pipe and turned hell towards the stairs feet sticky with viscera. He scraped his foot on the stair like a business man tracking in dog shit. He adjusted his crotch as he left the building. Laughed as he walked away. (less)