Infinity
Fading in too quickly, like a bad movie. I’m awake. Lying on my back in a softly grotesque bed sucked tight onto my back. Moving my arms to my head, a schlurp lets me know that this isn’t a bed. I look around, the clumps of the ground stuck to my hair. This is a flat, empty wasteland. Dead trees stand solitaire in the distance. And everywhere. Everywhere. Its all mud.
My attention focuses inwards, and as I crawl to my feet I stare at what little can be seen of my mud-spattered self. I’m wearing some sort of old and tatty three-piece suit. In my left hand is a large, silver, semi-automatic handgun. A quick check reveals that there is only one bullet in the magazine. Oh, and I have absolutely no idea who I am.
Fading in too quickly, like a bad movie. I?m awake. Lying on my back in a softly grotesque bed sucked tight onto my back. Moving my arms to my head, a schlurp lets me know that this isn?t a bed. I look around, the clumps of the ground stuck to my hair. This is a flat, empty wasteland. Dead trees stand solitaire in the distance. And everywhere. Everywhere. Its all mud.
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Tags: Kirk Mitchell
July 29th, 2008 at 2:57 pm
Are you the one (so badly translated in French) “Femme qui tombe du ciel”…, the one who writes about the white pine tree ? Such a long silence since 4 years. Oh ! Mississippi Burning ! You are the one ?
I a not gonna ask you about your silence. Silence can’t be shared and justified to anyone. I know a lot about silence, unwritten pages and the weight of going out with no envy.
Please excuse my approximative langage.
Paul Mercusot