|main menu | youngsters categories | authors | new stories | search | links | settings | author tools|
|Bronze (standard:drama, 696 words)|
|Author: servetheser||Added: Nov 22 2005||Views/Reads: 1971/0||Story 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. Tweet
Authors appreciate feedback!
Please write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
servetheser has 2 active stories on this site.
Profile for servetheser, incl. all stories