|
Blood and death are waiting like a raven in the sky. But it's not the raven that will get to you ... it's the humidity. Blood and death were waiting like some twisted and sinewy cloud up in the heavens. Some people called them snow clouds--others called them abominations. Is it the blood or the death that is like a raven? I can never remember; and why are they in the sky? Is it the final polluted sunset on an era already past it's prime? We are due for some cataclysmic event ... or so I hear.
This old guy, Suggs, took a long, slow drag on someone else's cigarette that he'd found in the gutter. The taste reminded him of a long-ago time when he'd been somebody important. But things kept going wrong. Nothing he did ever got finished. He began to realize that it wasn't just coincidence that nothing ever worked out for him. It was always the product of the unseen group of people that lurked in his past and future--but never the present. They were far too clever to lurk in the present.
Suggs sauntered down the street ever weary of the blood and death hovering sometimes inches, sometimes miles, in the sky above him. Better to get it over with now, he thought. But those weren't his thoughts. Those thoughts belonged to the raven. Get it over with, it shouted, or rather screeched. Suggs only puffed harder at the ever shortening cigarrette. He smiled and looked over his shoulder.
I know you, Suggs thought. You just keep your distance. I won't pay you no mind.
Suggs' life went on despite the raven. Sometimes he coughed and farted when people in nice suits walked by. That was always good for a laugh. It made the clouds of blood recede for a second or two. He didn't do it all the time though. That would be rude.
"Damn," Suggs would say to no one in particular, "this humidity's a bitch."
|