Lambs to the Slaughter

17 stood frozen.

Clouds parted as the sun made its first appearance of the day. The gun in his hand got harder to hold; drops of rain water trickling down its side, attempting to flee the inevitable moments that were to follow. He could hear 54’s breath get heavier, sense his arm weaken; time was not on their side.

The man in a trench-coat across the chain-link fence had not moved in what seemed like an eternity; the darkness of the morning stretching time out like an abandoned highway. But something had just changed. He knew it, and he smiled. A sniper’s dot moved up 17’s chest.

Shadows receded revealing the man and his weapon. Both 17 and 54 sensed the change in atmosphere. Something had thrown the deadlock off balance. Fate had taken a side and there seemed to be no way out. No safe way.

Hours earlier, as their six year search had seemed to asymptote, an inconspicuous sheet of paper had lead them to this warehouse. They had expected it to be abandoned, the trip faultless, and the result fruitful. Everything had gone as planned until a weakened column had crumbled, forced them outside and alerted the building’s two residents.

Light exposed more of the building in front of them, and a reflection of the sniper explained the man’s rather malicious grin. The old walls of the building were not new to confrontation; they seemed detached, oblivious to their surroundings; almost blissful in their voluntary ignorance.

The silence was haunting, broken insistently by the ominous ticking of each man’s wristwatch. The sound appeared to swell to a crescendo, counting down to the future. Every tick leading them to their impending downfall.

Dust fell slowly from a growing crack above the man. He remained motionless, but his smile faded. More dust came down as small parts of the building disintegrated.

The man flinched.

The building welled with discomfort, its detachment snatched away by gravity and time. It hopelessly clutched to a weak promise of self preservation.

Each man felt the building give in to its fate and sigh as it collapsed. No one took their eyes off their target. The wind turned quiet; the silence was deafening; each fist clenched tight; each trigger trembled obligingly.

BANG.

Nicotine for breakfast

It was your standard issue cold, dark night; a night a philosopher and a cup of coffee could keep each other company and watch the light rain turn to snow. Falling snow has never ceased to amaze me: the romanticism of the image, the lethargy of being carried by the lightest wind, the beautiful myth that each was unique. It always seemed to me a metaphor for existence. Maybe that is just hopeful. That I’m right. That everything can be incredibly simple.

The street was actually eerily empty. It hadn’t dawned on me as I pondered the workings of the universe, but as I woke from my oblivion I found my otherwise acceptably occupied street completely barren. Silence takes its time on you; it works into you, building paranoia in its own calming way. I had to think. About anything. Just regain active control over my fading consciousness: mute my defiant internal monologue.

I took the last sip of coffee and left the house.

I expected the bustle of the main street to comfort me, but this wasn’t to be. Most everything was quiet all the way down. No cars. No open shops. House lights off. The streetlights provided each other companionship and the disenfranchised neon signs and bus-stops lay low, making no attempt to encroach. I kept walking.

My shoes made little sound on the street and the loudest noise was me compulsively clicking my lighter on and off. I passed the second-hand bookstore, a vegetable shop, and half a dozen empty plots before I lit my last cigarette. The sky had come alive by then. Orange was stealing the purple and the fog was lifting off the lake.

The sun broke the horizon. Beaming. It stared me down, but I was not shaken. We each revelled in our distinct solitude.

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Note: I don’t know what this is. Dylan is playing.