He mopped his brow and sweated more, loaded up the gun and locked the door, sat down in the easy chair, easy there, and polished twenty seven silver spoons noticing the way you do that silver in a certain light looks almost blue.
Steady, steady he got ready for the big kabang and then the doorbell rang, being mindful of the deed he planned aware there’d be some noise and then, the coroner and his boys would come, look at him, say, someone’s son has done it now, he rose and answered to the chimes, how many times had he thought too, change the bell but didn’t do.
Do you believe in Jesus? said the caller who stood sideways on the welcome mat,
‘not that I’m aware of but I never really thought of that.
he replied, the thought of gunfire flashed across his lazy eyes,
slowly I might add and not that he was mad or nothing so mundane
it was just he was so fed up of the anything and everything, the same old same old was getting older every day and the only way to end it was to put the barrel to his lips and take the cartridge shell, to arc magnificently and descend the stairway into hell.
The man with Jesus tattooed in his hair who knocked and waited for his share of godliness didn’t care, he wasn’t paid for this, his work was to promote his Christ not listen to some doddering dick who was quite obviously sick.
The easy not so easy stare that sits in some old easy chair to polish twenty seven silver spoons is not so easy being there, but I expected this.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.