Bones To Bury

He tapped his knarled fingers on the wood of the table. The right hand shifted: Now handling a large mug of rum, now stroking his auburn beard. His hand, his body, the stool, desk and entire cabin wheeled languidly starboard with a creak, as the lamp overhead swung to port, then all begun to swap orientations. The swinging of the lamp pulled shadows from wall to opposite wall. Light danced on the canvas treasure map below. Light danced across the buckles and rings of his clothes. Light danced in his eyes.

trying to remember what was in that direction, he jettisoned his slack, lack-lustre libido, and picked up a parched leather suitcase fit for the road. Nothing left to turn his back on, striding fist-pawed into the sunset with a bent cigarette hanging from his bottom lip.

“Shazam!” the explosion hadn’t come, and now he was left with a morbid fear of the Everyday. Kitchens and children’s parties and Sunday newspapers. He kept his cool and watched through dark sunglasses, whilst sweat trickled conspicuously down his temples. The Big Corporations; he was supposed to be at the top of all this. These worlds formed out of empty McDonald’s containers and Coke cans and whathaveyou. He could snipe from the lofty heights of penthouse apartments, but this was all street-fight. It was dirty and pleasant and emotional and screaming and what Christmas is all about.