Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site



In a post apocalyptic wasteland, where can one get a drink?


Submitted:Mar 24, 2012    Reads: 22    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Limestone bones powdered into an elixir with clumps of granite, each patron took a swig from their mugs. Glass rim greeted their lips with radioactive liquid as it made its way tickling the back of their throats. In between the swallows and gulps,a burp in the shadow revealed, as a candle lantern flickered idly on the marble counter-top. Each man was ruggedly dress, in clothing torn with their rifles sticking out.

Tape all across the magazine clips and bobby pins logged in between the seams uttered a bitter silence. They were not social, yet they drank in company. The bartender served another radioactive beverage as her lingerie slipped off her burnt skin. The man, who she was serving, cracked a yellow lemon smile as he gazed upon her seared flesh. His complexion was no better, for his entire face had been grazed with flames. In between the moments of salacious desires came a bard whom, with clothes dirty with the sandstorm, radiated a cheerful essence as he stood before the entrance of the curtain and began strumming away. Each melody brought the tenders to either tap their foot or bob their heads, all but one. The distressed man stood with his switchblade in his hand, rusty with dried blood, and began approaching the bard.

The bard noticed and did not miss a single note as he played A minor on his guitar-lute and used his instrument as a weapon. The distressed man was beguiled as his own switchblade penetrated his chest and the guitar-lute had bludgeoned his temporal region. As he fell backward and laid in pain, the bard began to beat him with the heel of his black leather boot. A smile faded into a smirk as the body was looted: a mere two sheets of aluminum foil; he frowned. "Oh well" he uttered as he seized the contents, and sat on top of the body.

He sang in a language they were unfamiliar with. Everyone in the shack was tense, yet they all maintained their distance. One man reached for his pistol, but his hand was unable. The look in the bard's eyes sent a chill down his spine. The bard left as his boots slightly echoed in the silence. As soon as he was out the bartender pleaded, "at least take the bodies, damn it, I'm tired of this shit!"





0

| Email this story Email this Short story | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.