Whistling
Orange light faded to black. Shadows found alleys sprawled out away from the streetlights that shared their poor gift with the decaying cast offs that kept forgotten roads from fading. With only a half-life given and heart long lost, there was little for the once-child to offer up when the mojo-maker finally winds down the street. Wearing dirt and grime and a broken smile, the once-child pieced together the last of his happy memories.
Dreaming of his holidays that never were, images of holly and tensil, costumes and over-full tables, mistle-toe and pensive kisses. The mojo-maker's price was always high and everyone had to pay if they didn't want to leave the alley.
Shadows are in the alley. You can't leave your shadow.
With crinkled paper and tattered ribbons, the boy no longer made a present of all he had left. With tears streaming down his cheeks and the forgetting warming his thoughts he settled down to wait.
The mojo-maker always comes after the shadows do.
Dreaming of his holidays that never were, images of holly and tensil, costumes and over-full tables, mistle-toe and pensive kisses. The mojo-maker's price was always high and everyone had to pay if they didn't want to leave the alley.
Shadows are in the alley. You can't leave your shadow.
With crinkled paper and tattered ribbons, the boy no longer made a present of all he had left. With tears streaming down his cheeks and the forgetting warming his thoughts he settled down to wait.
The mojo-maker always comes after the shadows do.
posted by Phil M. at 10:01 PM
3 Comments:
you have a deep talent for writing, T.
lets see some more of this.
As my good friend, Admiral Akbar might say, "It's a trap!"
Ray
1) You've been much more prolific lately. The novel attempt, aborted or no, has brought out something wonderful.
2) This is fuck'n fatastic. It reminds me of a Tom Waits song.
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