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Bronze (standard:drama, 696 words)
Author: servetheserAdded: Nov 22 2005Views/Reads: 1971/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Drunk and wondering town.

Bronze By. Andrew M. Abernathy 

It was one of those moments when you knew it was all over.  The air
around them was stiff with the awkwardness and discomfort they felt.  
The Girl took one last drag off a filter wishing it still contained 
substance to hold onto.  The Boy rimmed the mouth of his bottle as he 
watched the last suds of comfort slowly disappear. She was older but he 
like the great Hendrix once described, he was experienced.  They knew 
the game they played and the truth that if one decided to play than 
they should expect to get played themselves from time to time.  Only 
this time it seemed they had played themselves into a corner of generic 
conversation and a loss of heart. With causal formality Marcus leaned 
in to finish off their beast of a date.  She closed her eyes but he 
refused to take his spoil blindly.  They shared a kiss of quality that 
was everything but sentimental.  More it was recognition of ones own 
kind.  Marcus and Kate stared blue eyed to green, as he mouthed the 
words “Goodnight.” Kate left with swiftness unusual for a bar as 
crowded and smoky as the Rib Cage.  With jagged sarcasm Marcus slapped 
his pinstriped knees, loosened his tie, and turned slumping down with 
his elbows on the bar.  He stared at a bowl of nuts, picking through 
them with his index finger as if he were searching for something.  His 
concentration was disturbed by the voice of Lisa, the Bartender. “Crash 
and burn baby?” “Something like that.” Marcus replied. “Well, its last 
call Hun. Need anything?” “Break my heart with a Red Stripe.” “Sure 
thing Sweetie.” Marcus roamed the streets alone that night. It had 
become a drunken tradition for him lately.  The square of Oxford, 
Mississippi seemed to embrace him on those lonely nights.  To many 
people it was a picture perfect example of southern beauty.  Marcus 
cared nothing for this beauty and tradition, it was the soul of the 
town that drove him to wonder at night.  The old buildings held secrets 
he loved to ponder but would never wish to know.  An ancient window 
bricked up, never to be looked through again calmed him and filled him 
with the desire to run his fingers through the bandage of bricks.  For 
those inebriated moments the town was his brother, it protected him. 
Outside the bars frat boys congregated and smoked their light 
cigarettes, in polo shirts and khakis.  They spoke of parties and 
sexual encounters, things not uncommon to Marcus.  For some reason this 
night he felt no resentment toward the boys dependent on three Greek 
letters.  Instead of a cold shoulder pass he greeted them and managed 
to bum a cigarette, thanking them with drunken kindness. He smoked with 
Faulkner. The bronze statue sat permanently on a bench.  The fate of 
the writer was to watch his home change forever. Buildings and roads 
were built and rebuilt.  The fashion changed, people came and went, and 
he sat there and absorbed it with stone-faced dignity.  Marcus found 
this to be an almost cruel way to honor one so distinguished, but 
realized it purpose was more to brag than it was to honor. Sobriety was 
gaining on him quickly, as well as the inevitable lonely walk home. 
Marcus knew he was done for the night. Determined not to look a drunken 
fool he tightened his tie, and brushed the ash off his pants.  He would 
walk home tonight without stumbling.  His first steps were confident, 
but his head was hurting now. His ears rang intensely.  The unexpected 
pain cut into him with harsh restraint. He knelt down with a look of 
reverence as he rested his head on the cool forgiving street.  The 
chill of the pavement made him smile and let he out a sigh of relief. 
Marcus never saw the truck. He never heard the engine or felt the 
blinding lights on his face.  He buckled under the massive automobile 
dying instantly, painlessly.  The truck drove on swerving with what was 
most certainly intoxicated excitement; it never paused. The only one 
who ever saw what happened was Faulkner. 


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