>back to writing

4 Apr 2018

It was two o'clock in the morning when the knock came at the door surprisingly gentle for a sheriff at that hour with a warrant for a man that's been dead already now for at least a month to month rent on a storage unit of measurement in olden times before there were smartphones and everyone had to say hello on the street and do math by hand to hand combat in boots with holes in the soles from shuffling papers thru a windowless office pane policy against accepting any gifts of frankincense and murder for cause of all this trouble is those damned outsiders coming in here and stirring things up like a roto-mixer of agitation and contamination penalties for this, that and everything anyone could fail to do if they were in a hurry up and wait state of mind control devices hidden in the attic whirring even at this hour when the heat's off and only the cat's awake keeping watch by the drain piped into something sinister none of the rest of us could hear until that rapping at the chamber door, only this and so much more room for the kids out here in the countryside with the rolling hills and the babbling brooks meandering thru the buried canisters of toxic wasting away at 45 from nothing any doctors could find with their machines that go to eleven out of twelve apostles wasn't too bad of a loyalty score if you don't count Peter and that crowing cock and bull story about our lives of quiet desperation en mass on Sundays is enough of these insinuations! Either you arrest me now, or I'm going back to bed.


© reed o’beirne 2018