After Hours.

by Darran Anderson

The night clouds are airships over the city. Same view from the same window. Only thing that ever changes is the sky. The last birds perch on the telegraph poles, spying on the messages inside the wire. Sometimes snatches of music, buoyed upwards by the wind, would escape from the staves, rise above the streets and drift into the room.

What was it in him that wished catastrophe upon this town? Earthquakes, whirlwinds, biblical plagues? To wake one morning and draw the curtains and find chalk-white survivors picking through mountains of fallen masonry. Boredom. That’s it. The one remaining sin.

Night was different though. Out there now, were god knows what: Oni demons, Coco Robicheaux, barflies roaring Cossack folk songs. The sights and sounds of a city on the plains. Night almost made life worth living. 

A floorboard creaked overhead, depth sounding within the walls. Most of the tenants came and went before you learnt anything about them. They’d leave a few traces, a carving on a bedpost, a tin box under the floorboards, some dreams left floating above the wrought iron beds. The radio rumbled on, propelling the ghost of Leadbelly out into the cosmos.

He sat the .45 on the bedside table. Took the note and pinned it to the outside of the door. 

“Don’t come in Sarah. Just phone the police. I’m sorry, goodbye,” it read.  It was still there when he came round, bleary-eyed and whiskey-sodden. It took him a few seconds to differentiate her from the bedpost. Standing there, arms folded, shaking her head. 

“Fucking drama queen.”   

 

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~ This piece was posted on Thursday, March 8th, 2007 and was filed under Blog, Writing, Short Story, Featured. You can make comments on it below. ~