Fleeting Tale Vol. 6

He finishes his room temperature coffee– store brand and brewed at home.

He longs for the days of old when a bank account was something he checked when his debit card was declined. The gruff, knotty white hairs shedding from his chin and cheeks were making him fiscally responsible. And boring. His adventurous-self retired the moment he resigned to being the (fiscally) responsible adult– spouse, co-worker, business owner, etc.

He rinses his reusable Starbucks cup before refilling it with fountain water.

He craves more coffee. There was a Starbucks on the ground floor, but was too responsible to buy coffee when he had plenty at home.

The hallway is quiet, but he isn’t alone since he has several surveillance cameras to keep him company.

He salutes the cameras.

He’s always tempted to wave at the camera, but that will just reinforce the idea that he was a strange and awkward fellow. It was true, he was the strangest, most awkward fellow in the (commercial) building, but he believes they didn’t need to know that about him.

He returns to his office and takes a quick sip of his cold, coffee-flavored tap water.

Responsible him no longer buys sugary drinks, nor does he drink them. He misses Snapple and the Arizona Half and Halfs– the one with the old golfer on the can, but his calories were now a thing to him and to his wife. She didn’t want him to get diabetes because diabetes were a thing to (fiscally) responsible adults.

He checks his phone.

55%… (Charging)… Spam likely called twice an hour earlier.

He turns off the Do Not Disturb on his phone and puts his phone on the Vibrate setting.

His phone needs to be on in case his wife calls. She wants to leave work on time so she can work from home for another five hours.

He spins his chair towards the door and reclines.

Its the week before a holiday weekend so he expected the office to be quiet.

He watches his door, waiting for Calliope, or one of her fine sisters, to twirl into his office and sprinkle magic dust on his eyes, or even his typing fingers.

It has been months since he’s written or snapped or played anything good or updated his resume or added anything to his website. He wonders whether he’s forgotten his muse in the Colorado mountains. Or whether his muse decided to remain behind, refusing to accompany or empower a person who periodically checks his bank account and refuses to buy coffee or ingest sugary drinks.

What’s happened to me?

He logs off of his computer, yanks his phone from the charger, grabs his jacket and prepares to promptly exit his office.

If his old muse won’t return, he’ll walk to the pier for his lunch hour and snap pictures of wandering pigeons and quirky restaurant signs until another muse takes notice. Or… so he hopes.

His phone rings.

Its his boss.

He removes his jacket, returns to his desk and returns his phone to the charger before answering the phone.

“Hello,” He says.

His new muse will have to wait. Or, send him an Outlook calendar request like everybody else.

Rockstar’s Rent II

Part I : https://darrionjwrites.com/2019/02/13/rockstars-rent-i/

Do you know who the fuck I am?

He side-eyed the trashy, piss-coated alley.

He thought of trying the alley again but didn’t have the energy or the patience to tussle with the diseased cats and Thick-neck bouncers who antagonized him with their lies, claiming they didn’t know who the fuck he was.

My goddamn name should be in lights. My guitar and I made this goddamn club.

He made that Goddam city. The Rose ain’t shit without him.

A black limo crossed the corner of his eye and drove past the block.

The same limo, fueled by the pain and oppression of Landlord’s tenants, which drove past three times before.

He examined the cracks in his guitar.

The neck of this guitar was one drop away from irreparable.

The fire escape did more damage to him than he first thought. He wanted justice. Payback.

He fought back tears as he dropped his guitar to his side.

A very special woman gave him that guitar. Taught him how to play.

Sister Nanci.

The guitar was one of a kind. She was one of a kind. Its why he named his guitar after her. Landlord was going to pay for the guitar with his money and with his blood.

Screw this.

He shoved his way to the front of the long line and dared everyone with his eyes to say something.

Half the spot was his. He should not have to wait on a line to place which was mostly his. The son of a bitch owner, Bird-Killer., owed him big time, and he was there to collect the debt.

“Wait,” Bouncer ordered.

“What?” He said.

Thick-neck bouncer waved in half a dozen whores in front of me.

He bit his tongue.

Allowing whores before him.

He took a deep, calming breath.

He wasn’t in the mood for static. Perhaps he’d deal with thick-neck bouncers after his sit-down with the owner. Until then, he’d exercise restraint and patience, like one of the delusional peaceniks with the drum circles he liked spitting on.

“What do you want?” Thick-neck asked.

“Entry,” He answered.

“No can do.” Thick-neck looked him up and down. “No shirt no service.”

He could kick himself for not grabbing a button-down and loafers before leaping from his from his second story window to escape If he’d have just stayed an extra minute, dug through his closet for some decent clothes and in turn allowed Landlord the proper time to cave in his skull with a shotgun cane, he’d be headless, but at least his body would be appropriately dressed to enter Bird-killer’s crappy establishment– which he partially owned.

He smirked. “Look buddy-“

“I’m not your buddy,” Thick-neck snapped.

“I’m here to see Bird-killer.” He replied through his teeth.

“And who are you?” Thick-neck said.

“He knows.” He pointed to the second floor window.

Bird-killer was watching their interaction. That creep loved to watch.

The black limo pulled up to the end of the block.

Shit.

Landlord and his limo was stalking him. Waiting for him to leave Bird-killer’s block.

“Your boss knows me,” He pleaded.

“Pretty sure he doesn’t,” Thick-neck said.

He attempted to step around Thick-neck to enter the club.

“Back of the line.” Thick-neck shoved him hard.

He tripped on the curb and lost grip of his guitar.

His night couldn’t possibly get any worse. The dark clouds were thickening.

Nanci hit the street and shattered into three parts.

No!

He fell to his knees.

He lost Sister Nanci twice. The pain felt like he did.

He stood to face Thick-neck.

Thick-neck cracked his knuckles like he was go for a scrap. “Try that again and I’ll-”

Thick-neck didn’t see him coming.

He cracked Thick-neck across his jaw with a leaping elbow. A hundred and fifty pounds of force across Thick-neck’s obese melon before chopping him across his buffalo shins.

Thick-neck staggered back and bulldozed a trio of whores who were politicking with a couple of simps at the door.

He didn’t want to kill Thick-neck, he just wanted the guy to know he meant business. Give him something to think about the next time he put hands on him.

Thick massaged his face before wiping the blood from his lips.

“You done fucked up,” Thick-neck said.

No sir, you fucked up when you finished my guitar.

I took a high-guard fighting stance.

The elbow shot should had dropped Thick-neck like a sack of oranges, but the bouncer was clearly juiced and thick like a coconut. He was prepared to chop Thick-neck down like a tree– he had nothing better to do.

Two more buffalo-built bouncers stepped outside the club.

Aw fuck.

Thick-neck and his two behemoth buddies were on top of him in a blink, beating his ribs and twisting him like a pretzel in the streets.

A whistle.

Thick-neck and his two bouncers immediately hopped off of him and returned to the door.

He spotted the silhouette of a man wearing a feathered fedora in the upstairs window.

He wiped the blood from his nose as he staggered to his feet. “You better talk to me.”

He looked down the street.

The window was cracked in the limo.

“You owe me bitch,” He screamed at Bird-killer in the window. “How quickly we forget, partner.”

Landlord was watching. Waiting. Landlord wouldn’t dare make a move on Bird-killer’s block. Honor among demons.

He turned his attention back to the window. “I built this place!”

Bird-killer stepped away from the window and closed the blinds.

Seconds later a young lady stepped outside to speak with Thick-neck.

That ungrateful…

He helped build that club. Bird-killer would be a drugged up nobody if he didn’t bring him into his circle. The fedora wearing fairy was a subpar drummer who lacked the talent to make it in that city without him, which is why he resorted to pimping and weapons-dealing.

Ungrateful bastard.

Thick-neck approached him again.

He raised one hand to a half-guard with the other holding his ribs together.

He was going to lose the fight but took satisfaction in the idea that he was about to be beaten to death and Landlord was never going to get his rent.

“Bird-killer will see you,” Thick-neck said.

He lowered his guard. “That’s what I thought.”

He snatched the pieces of his shattered guitar from the ground and followed Thick-neck into the alley to the VIP entrance at the side of the club.

The hall was dark and he could feel the rumbling of the shitty music in his bones.

Bird-killer had done renovations since he’d last been to the spot. The VIP entrance was completely separate from the club.

He followed Thick-neck through the dark hallway and up the stairs and into the office.

Bird-killer was behind his desk.

Behind him was a view of the club floor and to his side was a view of the street.

The limo was no longer there.

“Stain,” Bird-Killer pointed to a seat. “Please.”

He took a seat.

Bird-killer poured him a drink. Vintage bottle. Expensive looking.

That’s more like it.

He took the drink and downed it in a single gulp.

It was like cold medicine going down but set fire to his chest.

He wanted another.

“You here for me?” Bird-killer asked in his effeminate voice.

“I’m here to collect,” He replied.

“Oh.” Bird-killer poured and slid him another drink. “Not here to pay off your debt.”

My debt?” He gulped another drink.

“You owe me a lot of money sweetie.” Bird-killer poured and slid him another drink.

“Owe you?” He drank another. “Bullshit.”

You owe me, Bird. The world owes me.

Bird-killer took a seat, crossed his legs to the side and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “No matter….”

The room started to spin.

“I’m happy,” Bird-Killer said. “You’re here to pay either way.”

His fingers froze..

Crash!

He lost his glass and nearly melted out of his chair.

“I promise you it’ll be painless,” Bird-killer said. “I owe you that much, partner.”

Pain…less?

The drinks. Bird-killer slipped him something heavy.

“You backstabbing piece of… …” He slurred.

The room went black. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t see shit. But he could hear.

“Prep him for surgery,” Bird-Killer said.

“Yes boss,” Thick-neck replied.

Shit.

Fleeting Tale Vol. 5

Who’s more deserving, you or your Copy?

He’d never heard of impostor syndrome.

He sat forward in his office chair. Slowly sipped his coffee and Kahlua cocktail.

Lukewarm coffee. More Kahlua than coffee. 

Not terrible.

In his sci-fi saturated brain, impostor syndrome was a sentient extraterrestrial virus. Virus xeroxes DNA before leaking from nostrils. Leakage hardens into a cocoon. Cocoon births a pristine copy of Original. Copy swiftly snorts Original up its nostril like cocaine infused Jello. Copy overtakes life– marriage, job, etc. Copy’s superior to Original.

He dumped coffee in trash and clicked send on resignation email before exiting office. 

Copy’s already succeeding where he’s failed.

The Sleepless Sleuth

Seven days.

He propped his leg on the chipped windowsill as he emptied what was left of the pill bottle past his lips.

Clouds in the sky. Gray clouds.

Looked like rain.

He hoped it wasn’t rain. The integrity of the roof in that dilapidated building couldn’t take another washout.

Cracks in the ceiling were spreading. The leaks were decaying the walls.

Thank goodness he didn’t keep too many of his important files there.

Time for a new office.

He reached past the powder vial in his breast pocket to draw his stuffed envelope.

A faded picture fell out of his pocket and onto his lap.

He picked up the picture and stared at it a while before placing it in his pocket, closest to his heartbeat, once again.

Rest easy, Sister Nanci.

He stared at the wrinkled envelope.

It’s an envelope he’d been carrying around for weeks. An envelope some street fiend would have gutted him to get their hands on. An envelope he should have used to repair the moldy roof, or a lease on an entirely new office on the North Side of town. An envelope he thought of gifting to someone far more deserving than he was instead of pissing it away on another commercial space.

She can do so better than this dump.

He stuffed it in his pocket before washing down the pills with a mix of two day old cup of rancid coffee, melted ice with a splash of vodka.

Breakfast.

His vacation was imminent. It was seven days away and no amount of old joe, case files or expensive street pharmaceuticals were going to keep him in the city past seven days. It wasn’t his reservation to cancel. The vacation was happening whether he wanted it to or not. And, something told him that it would be a trip from which he would never return.

“Your desk is full,” My assistant said from the doorway behind a cart with a single file.

“Sorry.” He turned to face her and nearly kicked a tower of files from his desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Into the office?” She asked.

“Into work,” He replied.

“I’ve been here since morning, Malone.”

“That so?”

He was buried so deep in his thoughts, so focused on his works, that a marching band could have set off a fireworks display in his waiting room and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Have something for me?” He asked.

“Work.” She handed him a file.

“I was hoping for coffee.” He stared into his empty cup.

“You’re out of coffee,” She said.

He placed the empty mug on his desk. “I figured… If you have time.”

He hadn’t left the office in a few days. Maybe weeks. He couldn’t recall the last t..ime he hit the market for food.

“I’ll buy coffee,” His assistant offered.

“That’s kind of you,” He said.

“It’s nothing,” She took his mug.

He hadn’t eaten in days. He’d been so distracted in his mad rush to solve cases before his vacation that he kept forgetting to eat.

He felt normal. He felt no pain. No weakness. His stomach was unusually silent for someone who is starving themselves to death.

“Anything else?” His assistant gestured for the empty pill bottle he was squeezing.

He was gripping the bottle so tight it had left his fingernail dents in the empty white label.

“No thanks.” He pocketed the empty bottle. “Just coffee.”

She cleared old cigarette butts from his desk and ashtray. “There’s a client.”

No time for any new cases.

“Uh huh.” He flipped through the new file. “Where?”

“The waiting room…”

“No kidding…”

“Will you meet with him?”

“When?”

“Now?”

“Unlikely.”

“Right…”

He had more important things to do than to take on a new case. Also, it wasn’t like he needed the money. He had more money than he needed to take care of himself and to pay for a new faucet for the bathroom and paint to cover up the green fuzz growing on the walls.

He felt her staring at him. “Yes?”

Her posture was like one of those billboards in Time Central. Blaring, bright and boisterously advertising her innermost thoughts. All she needed was a cigarette and an over the top pose.

“Ask me anything, alright?” He faced her.

She huffed. “Are you leaving again?”

“Yes.” He returned his attention to the file. “Soon.”

“How long this time?” She asked.

Wish I had answers for you.

“Last time it was weeks.” His assistant cleared all the solved case files from his desk. “How long this time?”

“A few days, hopefully,” He answered.

“That’s what you said last time,” She answered.

“Sorry,” He replied.

Silence.

“Need someone… to water your plants?” She asked.

He shut his file and clasped his eyes. “Yes…. Please. That would be appreciated.”

He loved his plants. His plants were colorful and too beautiful for that world. He would hate to return from his vacations to see his beloved plants dried up.

His assistant perched her lips. “Okay.”

“Slip this into a red folder.” He drew a pen and wrote a few notes in the file before placing the file on top of the pile. “File it under solved.”

“I just handed you that file,” His assistant opened the file.

“I know.” He replied. “It’s connected to the big arson case we just solved.”

He remembered the Arson case being an open and shut one. The Police Chief wanted to give him credit and the keys to the city for that one. He refused. He neither wanted nor needed anymore accolades from the city.

“I’ll have the courier collect it,” She placed the file evenly atop the tower of solved cases in her cart. “And I’ll tell the client in the waiting room you solved his case.”

“Thanks,” He said.

“How much should I charge him?”

“Nothing… Tell him it’s on the house.”

“Will do…” The little lady shuffled quietly out of his office before he could reply to her insistence on seeing the client in the waiting room.

He faced the window again but didn’t bother reclining.

He thought about his cases were getting easier to solve, and how there was no need to leave his office anymore to solve them. Much like he never needed to see a chess board for more than a second to beat the pants off of a park hustler. He learned early in his career that people in that city were walking-talking game pieces– at most, wind up toys. Everybody’s movements. Everybody just played their positions from sunrise to sundown. Wake to sleep. Birth to death. People in the city were like flesh-carved chess pieces, and Rose city was the overcrowded, noisey, polluted game board, tearing at folds in the center and barely being held together with flimsy tape; and all he needed to see was a first move. One move and then he could step away from the table, and call in checkmate from a pay phone from the South Side of town.

Sad.

He grabbed his scarf, hat and pistol.

He once considered himself lucky for his omniscience. He once considered himself God’s favorite– if a God existed. It took him six vacations to realize the truth.

He yawned.

Truth was, he was cursed. He was being force-fed things his tired mind and deteriorating body could barely handle.

He needed some air.

The one case he couldn’t solve was his own– what’s happening to him. The human brain wasn’t built for what he was being forced to carry. There was no way to stop it. His next vacation was going to kill him.

He needed a cold shower and a hot meal.

He threw on his hat, holstered his pistol in his pocket and wrapped his scarf around his neck before leaving his office.

He waved to his Assistant as he walked past her and some other guy in the waiting room. “Take the rest of the week.”

“Malone…” His assistant chased him into the hallway. “Are you leaving now?”

“Just heading out for some air,” He paused allowing her to catch up.

“And you’re coming back, right?” His assistant questioned. “For your coffee.”

He peeked back into my office and noticed a small, jittery looking man slouched over in our rickety waiting room chair.

“Maybe tomorrow,” He said.

“I won’t make it until then.” She painted a smirk across her face. “The coffee.”

“Thanks.” He pulled the fat envelope from my pocket and handed it to her. “Take the kid out for a steak.”

The contents of the envelope would allow her to buy steak dinners three times a week for the next month. Knowing her, she would use forego the luxury and spend it on something more responsible rent and groceries for the next six (months).

She took the envelope. “He doesn’t eat steak.”

“Pie then,” He said. “Get pie.”

She nodded while examining the envelope.

The envelope he handed her could be severance pay. He hadn’t decided yet. It may not be his decision after all after he goes on his forced vacation.

“Thank you,” She said.

His assistant didn’t even check the envelope. She just held it in her hand like an empty pack of cigarettes.

He called the elevator.

He didn’t deserve her. Not only was his assistant the lifeblood of their agency, she was the most honorable, warm-hearted person he’d ever meet. She was a partner, a friend; the closest thing to a wife and family he’d ever have in his waking life.

“I’ll buy fresh coffee.” She tapped him on the chest with the envelope. “And some new chairs for the waiting room.”

“That would be nice,” He replied.

Ping

The elevator arrived.

He stepped into the elevator.

She waved at him as the door closed and the elevator descended.

He stuffed his hands in his pocket instead of waving back.

He was never good at goodbyes.

The elevator rumbled down to the first floor. He saluted the door man before leaving my building for the darkness and the drizzle.

His car was parked out front.

Fuck driving.

He tightened his top button started his way up the damp street in the opposite direction from his apartment.

The Stockton’s had a monopoly on refueling stations. On all energy in the city. He’d sooner walk in the rain and catch pneumonia than to give those gluttonous bastards another cent of his cash.

“Sir,” A sheepish voice called from his flank.

If he had to guess based on his voice, his stalker was an unimposing man. The nail-biter from the waiting room must have been following him for a good mile.

“Mr. Malone, I was hoping you’d take this case,” nail biter said.

“It’s closed,” He replied. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

He wasn’t even in the mood to humor nail-biter.

“It’s not,” nail biter insisted.

Arson. A hospice ward full of coma patients incinerated by a lone wolf lunatic. It was an open and shut case. One of the easier cases to solve.

“Mr. Malone, you’re the only one who can solve this case.” The stout little guy positioned himself in front of him.

“Nothing left to solved,” He said. “The arsonist is getting the chair in a week.”

Executions were speedy in that city. Trials were quick and efficient. To save space in the overflowing jails. Soulless but practical.

“No…” Waiting room man blocked his path. “You locked up the wrong guy.”

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Cyrus,” Waiting room man replied.

“Okay Cyrus,” He jabbed his finger into Cyrus’s chest. “I caught the right guy.”

“Not this time,” Cyrus said.

That Cyrus fellow was really trying his patience.

“Get home safely.” He stepped around Cyrus and started walking.

“You’ve got seven days right?” Cyrus said. “Your sleep cycle. Seven days until you go on your vacation.”

He paused. “What did you say?”

“I know what happens when you sleep, Mr. Malone,” He said. “Where you go….”

He drew his pistol grabbed Cyrus with his free hand and slammed the portly man against a store gate.

“I have visions too!” Cyrus pleaded as he gasped for air. “You and I are the same!”

He pressed his pistol against Cyrus’s temple. “Choose your next few words carefully.”

There was only one person in the city who about his vacations and she’d died months ago.

Rest easy, Sister Nanci.

He nearly Cyrus’s front teeth shoving his pistol in his mouth. “Say something useful.”

If the man know about his… then he’d know about how to fix it. If Cyrus didn’t know how to fix him, then he would have to immediately remove Cyrus from the equation.

“The arsons… my visions… your Insomnia…” Cyrus coughed. “Where you disappear to twice a year…Its all connected.”

He removed the pistol from Cyrus’s mouth and took a step back. “Connected how.”

Cyrus hunched over, trying to recapture his breath.

“Connected how?” He asked again. “Answer now.”

Cyrus stood tall and handed him an envelope. “You’re the only one capable enough to find out.”

He opened the envelope.

On the inside was a tape labeled Sister Nanci, and it was dated on the label as recorded seven days ago.

“First, we listen,” Cyrus said. “Then we bring her back from the dead.”

The Proud and Grateful Pan Knight (On his Tenth Birthday)

How to Draw a Wrapped Gift or Present with Ribbon and Bow - How to Draw  Step by Step Drawing Tutorials

My tenth birthday was a full sixty years before my final birthday. 

I somersaulted over the gate and landed in an ankle deep excrement pie. There was no time to clean my boots so I quickly abandoned them on the porch before sprinting into my cabin. 

“Morning mother,” I said. 

My mother nodded. 

I was up long before the sun to feed the chickens early so my mother could not scold me for not taking care of the coups and the stocks before breakfast. So I was free to sit by the big unmarked box in the living room, near the fireplace.

Mother cleaned and brewed Ginger Coffee while grandfather sucked on a pipe. 

“Can I open it now?” I asked

“Have a seat?” My mother ordered.

I nodded and took my seat quietly at the kitchen counter. 

“You need your srength,” Mother said. 

“Grandpa says understanding self is as important as building strength,” I said. 

Mother placed a steaming bowl of fish porridge before me and started wiping the counter. “Your grandfather will never be drafted.” 

“I can still scrap,” Grandfather coughed. 

Mother stared at Grandfather. “If he’s not strong enough to wield the armor…” 

“Then he’ll get lighter armor,” Grandfather answered. 

My mother slammed her rag on the counter. “And less protection.” 

“He won’t grow much bigger than he is.” 

“Yes he will, father…” 

“Let the boy discover what is best for him,” Grandpa lowered his pipe. “What’s best may not be a heavy suit of armor. ” 

“What’s best won’t matter if he’s dead, father.” 

Silence. 

“I will check on the chickens,” Mother said before leaving. 

I fed them already

“And some more tobacco, please dear,” Grandpa said. 

“You have legs,” Mother shot back. 

The poultries and meats were reserved for the Shining Knight brigade. Nothing more important than to support God’s mandate to expand the Potentate’s vast kingdom. We had mud-salmon for protein. 

Mother’s seasoning masked the bitter taste of Mud Salmon. 

I was happy to support the war effort by tolerating a few more months of mud salmon for breakfast. Anything for our divine potentate. Anything for our Glittering Knights.

“Did you thank the Gods?” Grandfather asked. 

I nodded. “And the empire.” 

“Then, open your gift,” Grandfather said. 

I looked over my shoulder. 

I was far from finished with my breakfast and I didn’t want to incur mother’s wrath. 

“I’ll deal with your mother,” I said. 

“Thank you!” I leaped off my stool. 

Grandfather grabbed my shoulder. 

“Patience,” Grandfather said. 

I slowly approached the box. 

The box seemed even bigger than when grandpa brought it into the house a week earlier. 

I took a breath. I removed the ribbon. I removed the lid. I reached in. I pulled out what looked like…

“A pan?” I said. 

I reached in again. Pan lids strung together with chains and leather. 

“Your new armor,” Grandfather said. 

I wiped away a tear. “I love it…” 

I loved it because it was mine. I didn’t care how it was made. I didn’t care how inexpensive it was. I planned to train in it to make it an extension of me. 

“Thank you, grandfather,” I said. 

Fleeting Tale Vol. 4

He stood in the hallway, fogging the glass as he peered into his office.

There were thick files waiting for him on his desk. There were mounts of paper about to tip over like dominos into each other.

He thought of his career. He thought of how many trees were destroyed to create those mountains. He thought of skipping lunch so he could escape an hour early. He thought of how much he missed his dog, and how much they both loved to spend their -unemployed-days taking terrible selfies and rescuing spiders from his wife. He thought of how much he missed his wife, and how lucky she was to work from home. And how lucky he was to work.

I miss you buddy…

He shut the door. He slung his backpack over his chair and powered his computer.

He was beginning to think they were right about him doing too much.

He was a writer. A DJ. A filmmaker. A part time sous-chef and a crime fighter dubbed by the social media as The Master Chef. He was also well known liar– to himself and his peers.

He digressed.

He grabbed a stack of paper and loaded it onto the outdated scanner. He pressed the on button.

Beep… Beep.

The scanner was jammed.

He sighed. “Brick by brick…”

He reclined his chair.

Its going to be a long day.

Bulk Trash

How to draw dog-collar / Learn to draw from other LetsdrawIt players
I miss you, Tre.

I place the last of his belongings in the alley.

His leash. His stuffed squirrel. His squeak toy. The citronella collar we sometimes used to keep him quiet. And lastly his bed. 

He adored his bed. 

The truck. Droning closer. At the top of the alley. Crushing discarded memories house by house. 

My stomach turned. 

The truck will swallow all I have left of him. The truck will cement the empty, circular space where my sweet pup used to reside. The space will become a bottomless well, filled to the brim with tears for my furry son.  

I return home.