Dec. 26th, 2016

drewkitty: (Default)
A happy Bruce Anders story!?!



Today was just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

Sometimes the nurse remembered to adjust my pillows. More often not. Sometimes the radio was on, sometimes the TV.

I couldn't see so it didn't matter. But I couldn't move either.

Spine damage will do that to you. Brain damage too, they'd said while shining bright lights in my eyes.

Nothing hurt.

Can you imagine that?

My body didn't hurt. My soul didn't hurt. I had no family but I didn't miss them. No memory either.

It doesn't hurt.

I'm not even sure it hurt when it happened. A quick starburst of brightness on the top of my head, and a cut string collapse that lasted ... well... forever I guess.

Time doesn't mean much here either.

I napped.

# # #

Man Struck Over Head With Chair Still In Coma


Two people are arguing over me.

"Let him go. He's done here. You've done enough."

"No. He has to play it out."

"Were you there when he called to you?"


"You lose your claim on him."

"You cannot hurt him!" G-D warned, dangerously.

"Furthest thing from my mind," she replied, unfazed.


Man... Strike ... Chair ... Comma

# # #

I am spinning, dazed, on my knees in the dimly lit bar as the man raises the barstool over me.

"You have one second," an elfin voice whispers to me. It is a bittersweet voice. Hearing it shatters men's souls. It inspired the ancient stories of Sirens.

And modern ones, too. The bartender's threat to call the cops is still in the air. This one's too drunk to listen.

I twist instead of trying to get up. My back grinds into the dirty floor as my legs come up and intercept the falling stool with the full power of my desperate thigh muscles.

The stool shatters. Dumbfounded, the drunk man lets go of the pieces.

I turn and pluck the shotgun out of the bartender's hands. He knew I hadn't picked the fight, and I wasn't the threat. Bad mistake, but it wouldn't cost him his life tonight.

The drunk man starts to stoop to pick up a sharp piece and I level on him.

"Run, man, or die right here, right now. Run. Run. Run."

The bar takes up the chorus. "Run. RUN. Run man run!"

He does. I hand the shotgun butt first back to the bartender.

"Thanks for the quick loan, John, I owe you one."

He is too stunned to take it, so I gently set it down on the bar top.

I am cold stone sober, more so than when I walked in.

I walk out of the bar.


Police Log

A Quiet Night In Midtown


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