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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
''When the final count is done, i will be in my hometown''

Submitted: July 22, 2010

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Submitted: July 22, 2010



The water shifted upwards, close to where they sat, bearing amber lines of their city. Unshakeable. Someone sifted shells around and danced before the swans. Dark hair. darker eyes, and noted once as earthy long ago; she the crimson ruse. The group a little farther off shared food and wine and traced the deep-set city patterns in each other irrevocably. Talking trifles into smoke and the coming night. They bended round the flames, unaffected while something fair and welcome up and hounded him. It seemed the dogs had come and laid to rest what is restless. Buried in their dogged future, beneath the lurching starling, now, adorning all their talked-down prayers. Mindless. The black and white girls and him by the water fashioning resolve in countless ways.  While the water remained inescapable and knotted them all in strings of home. They were three for a little while. The girls used unflagging fresh-faced strength and ignorance to paw him from his sorrow. So grateful. Swinging through the stench of nostalgia from re-grouping to defeat. The water lay there reeking of the past.
Down in her rose-hip fury the dark-haired comely pale thing broke the mirror city and teased the big white birds. So organic and so far away from the nights when she reigned his superior and commanded devotion. Devotion for her awe-troubled follower. They were three for the time being and the group looked on unconcerned. Beside him, the blue eyed broken, sat the fair beauty. He would rename her creamy femininity stallion-like as she reared with bluntness only could her darling gold-ness distribute. They sat and smelt tomorrow, digging to keep what would ordinarily break him under all the truth he must move on. So grateful. Over there the one who made him fragmentary spared glances and he did not move. He wants him to know how much he has hurt him. From walking slow into crouching, crushed, he thinks now he will see how he’s hurt him to the core. But there is nothing the blue-eyed boy can do to make him come to where the candid horse-girl lays her head. He will never move. At once, beneath his rough dirty curls a thousand explanations plague him; as always the motives and the cruel-wonder mindset appear so transparent. But he let the girls talk him round with the light leaving the brow of their town. The design seemed so haunting in the water. Stretched all the way from spires and concrete to their frail forms in the grass. Long are the ropes that keep them a part of this. He found his un-sugared lady steed would guide him back as the hot dark-featured girl left her swans and joined them.
Their mouths moved slowly around new ideas and only pensive eyes greeted the three. There was never any largeness in the group. Before every young tongue there was an oldness and routine like something grave and biblical and only did the tones of limbs speak all the dark and rushing law and madness. The fair steed nayed once and met the hate and desire of them all. She took her seat firmly alone as though she could not be attained. In the centre, innocent the dark-haired girl floated down and addressed them all. Adored and despised for being so adored. And he, blue eyes still wet (make him care) deliberately sat away from him and trained his eyes to make the others love him, still. They passed the conversation, all of them now, and as is natural, kept the needs between a furtive nod and scrape of knuckles round a bottle neck. The exterior is always slow. Elapsing time enough for it all to be said where the bodies brush and the deeds are tried and failed.

© Copyright 2017 Alex Jose. All rights reserved.

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