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Long Bladed Trip
By
Wayne H.W Wolfson
Everything I used to kill is gone. Even the now empty spaces are hard to find.
The cabin, the scent of damp wood.
Her skin, thighs, a straight road I had to follow. Tasks of passion accompanied by a New Orleans funeral march.
Always there was that secret pain kept deep inside her like an unbirthed child. It was only my guesses that I wrote about. She thought differently.
The cabin. Again. It was there, in my dreams. In my art, that was then. It had been more important than just a place to go.
The cabin with its cool, off season darkness. The scent of damp wood which was not too unpleasant.
Everyone else was still in the other room. What else was there for us to do? One of two things. Both to be done, it only being a matter of choosing the order.
The pillow talk, rituals I have always found necessary. We laughed softly, a guitar plucked in the dark.
Everything is fleeting. I already knew this. In the future she and her people would save time by painting my picture in big broad strokes. They will say I was bad. There is not enough time to go into detail.
Blank paper.
I have won.
When I have one of my spells I have to create her, again. I have to tell her, I have to find her. Ink fills the page, blood from a wound.
Rain.
The sound of her crying, the creak of wood straining.
Rain
Silence.
Footsteps fading off in the distance.
All she had of her Russian childhood was an obscure saying about tigers. Even this she gave to me.
Me.
Me.
Me? The darkest thing I know is also the truest.
Copyright © 2006 Wayne H.W Wolfson
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