Thursday, July 19, 2012

Excerpt from Parts of Noah (4): The Man in Third Cemetery's Theory


-I remember, clearly as I’ll remember you, son, the day this world stopped trying to improve itself. Cloudy day it was, of course, human beings are powered by Mother Sun, it’s those damn clouds that drag our faces down, isn’t it?  Though I really shouldn’t speak like I’m still part of the team, I made that choice. This bullet of yours, my son, it came from miles and miles and miles away. I look at you, at those bored little eyes, I can know for sure you’ve seen death from all sides, haven’t you? But how many of them have you caused? You may never know and don’t look to me for any answers. You make your way just like anyone and you never do know who you’re hurting, do you? I know this and probably only this: we come in this world with the same number burned into our backs, and that number, my son, is ONE. Some lonely bastard could’ve been shooting cans in his backyard, never was aiming for your dog. Every second you live you’re taking time away from someone else, you know that.  That bullet could’ve come from a town you’ve never heard of, a drug land shoot out. You see, what turned my guts inside out was that I could do all the good I could fit into a day and it still wouldn’t matter if that drunk bastard blows a red light, does it? I could know all these obsolete laws and never see the inside of a prison, perfect law abiding citizen, a junkie would still stab me for my shoes. How I died was by my own will, every circumstance designed by me, owner of my life, owner of my death. Wasn’t about to wait for my body to rot, and I’d be damned if any other sack of flesh and bones was going to decide or design my ending. My last perfect meal still sits in my stomach, that last sad song still plays in my ears. I chose the time of day, I chose the place. Wasn’t going to die in the middle of the road, now was I? You want to know how, you can dig me and up and see for yourself, though no one’s ever gone to that sort of trouble. Whether it was an accidental misfire from some town whose name is forgotten now, or a poor shitty shot that failed to kill its real target, what I know is that even a dog deserves to have it end his own way. What’s all this for, then? You don’t ask but I know you’re wondering. Well, son, even a ghost needs to escape now and then. Hand me that sack.

(End of Excerpt)

This is original writing and copyright and all that fine print kind of stuff. Please credit this to Chessterr Hollowberry. Thanks!

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