Mar 18, 2010

WAITING FOR THE END:12

by Vincent Daemon





WAITING FOR THE END





All the what-ifs and what-do-you-think-will-happen-whens were coming to fruition.

Ward stared blankly at the dead computer screen. He peered about the room, taking silent inventory of the moment. It was that beautiful moment when hopelessness and fear weighed everyone down like a leaden albatross.

Raymondo and Dexi played round the clock with Anna, doing their best to keep the sweet red-haired girl's attentions away from the omnipresent doom. It caused Ward to giggle to himself. Chas was right, he thought, they are creating a family friendly apocalypse.

He then looked to Chelsea and Angel sitting in the candlelit silence, holding each other tight. Their love for each other was illegal, could even have gotten them killed. But they persevered, struggled through it, and stayed together. It was truly beautiful, he thought, and the one thing he regretted not attaining in his own outcast, illegal lifestyle.

With the end looming so obvious on the horizon, Ward felt almost blessed to be witness to such caring, such selfless displays of love, openness, and goodwill. They all could have caved so easily like the rest of the animals, could have fallen prey to the most easily accessible sins for coping within their reach: violence, greed, lust. Primordial, rudimentary instinct conjoining with modern greed and the me me me of the western world to trap man in its very own master/slave relationship, with himself and the rest of the universe. There was nothing to stop them but their own moral compasses. And most of the planet had long ago abandoned theirs, so much like Chas. It had long ago been washed down into the sewer by technology and distraction, instant gratification and herd mentality. It had been washed away along with freedom of speech and choice, the Bill Of Rights, animal rights, and looking out for your fellow human being. All decency, obliterated.

But these people did not cave. They stayed true to themselves, and to others. Ward truly, deep down in his soul, appreciated the brief moment of peace, amidst madness.

Amidst his own personal sickness and demise. He knew he was getting sicker. He could feel it in his appetite, his bong-like breathing. He could feel it in the painful, scarlet purple lesions that were beginning to form sticky-deep in his flesh, especially his arms and back. That was why he had taken to wearing the long sleeve button-downs whenever he could, trying to conceal them as best as possible, even though the shirts would cling nastily to the festering flesh pits, creating visible, huge purple stains.

He could smell himself rot.





We Continue Monday, March 22, for a bit of
DISCONTENT






Be sure to return
with the lowelie owle
on the morrowe
for THE DEVIL AND
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE,
by Adam Bolivar

"The Moon’s my constant Mistresse
& the lowelie owle my morrowe;
The flaming Drake and the Nightcrowe make
Mee musick to my sorrow
."
—Tom O’Bedlam

1 comment:

  1. That was a rich portrait of beauty and despair. I love how you can paint such contrastic scenes. I'm a total tart for contrast.

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