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Monday - A Little Story For You All. Criticism Wanted!
Date: Apr 23rd, 2007 5:07:53 am - Subscribe
Mood: Fuzzy
Load on my mind: N/A

Clark sat out of sight, hiding from the light, in the shadows, avoiding the eyes of anyone that might hurt him. He watches the man in the long flailing grass as it wraps around his legs. The shivers of the man as his hands stretch to the sky remind Clark of the cold nights made warm by the neon lights.

The man’s harsh turns make the sun behind him glistening brightly, blinding Clark every few seconds. Clark’s hand moves slowly and quietly in front of his face, fingers leaving gaps for him to see through, staring intently at the dancer in the nearing twilight. Clark closes his eyes for a moment and he is taken back to the lamppost outside the bar where his wife disappeared. The burning red through his eyelids would forever remind him of this place.

It had only been two weeks after their Vegas wedding, married by a priest called Elvis at the Lucky Coins chapel, that Clark had seen the florescent lights before seeing his newly wed wife consummating her second marriage in so many weeks under a table in their favourite bar, Fragithol. Within the next 5 minutes, just as the sun now shone over the dancers fingers in the field, a bullet exploded from the barrel of a shotgun. And then another, for crowd control of course. Hearing this, Clark ran, never knowing why his wife would hurt him like this or who this stranger and newfound enemy were.

The dancer moves closer to Clark now, in front of the trees with the grace of angels as the sun mimics a mirror ball through the leaves behind him. Clark sinks lower into the grass, leaves crush under him and he stops breathing til he feels safe again. Scared of being revealed Clark rubs mud on his face hoping for a miracle camouflage. Staring out again at the dancer the mirror ball sun blinds him, in longer bursts then before, allowing him to see only the orange outline of nothingness. Looking down again Clark is taken back to his walk along the highway.

Once the noise had stopped from the shotgun shells and the screams loud enough to shatter glass, had the bullets not done this themselves, Clark ran. He ran from the bar, then Las Vegas, then Nevada, its amazing how little effort it takes to walk when you have no destination. A sound above Clark snaps his mind to the van that slowed down and picked him up as a friend would.

A crackling sound in Clarks left ear awakes him from his self-induced hypnosis. A voice screams for his attention. This had been an important call and once again Clark was responsible for a death. All Clark’s dreams of innocence are shattered again, his wife, her husband all dead. He’d never meant to pull the trigger, more then once, it was all to scare them, he swears on it. Walking on a major highway as a wanted criminal is never a good way to escape, not when every paranoid American and his buddy tourist point and take pictures of the man in the bloodstained clothes.

Five months in jail and Clark was shipped off to a war he didn’t know about, sent straight to the frontline. And now, exhausted, this dancer teases him. This soldier being pushed back by a hail of bullets, twitching in time to the rhythm, flailing lifelessly, spinning as he falls into his final move in his dance and in turn his life. Clark watches in envy as his comrade dances to death, mocking him.


In Aeternum,
Pura

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