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The Man In Black

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He is wearing black and on top of his head is a hat reminiscent of a depression-era paper boy yelling “Extra! Extra!” His skin is pale grey, sickly, and it is made a slightly lighter shade than usual by the snow lying on the ground and flakes that are falling subtly through the air with no interruption from any invisible wisps or ghostly gusts.
The man is squatting low to the ground with his head in between the legs of his black trousers and his hands in his jacket pockets. It looks as if the scene is that of a painting that told the story of bleak disconsolate man in a bleak disconsolate world. He is steady and motionless, not shivering even though it is cold enough that every exhaled breath from the man is a foggy mist, and there is no other soul or creature in the landscape or horizon.
His figure is a mild distance from the breaking of bubbly waves that are ever so slowly getting closer to him with every breath the watery presence takes. The once black pebble beach is now a blanket of angelically sparking white which makes the clothing of the man make a rather large blackholeesque dent in the scenery.
The back ground is of a white snowy beach, the rhythmic pushing of the salty wet beast, and of a lonely hill with one black bird on top of a single tree that has grown mighty and high into the speechless sky. Upon the hill is a set of footprints that run down the hill to where the man is.
Now enters the woman from the direction opposite of the hill. Her appearance fits perfectly into the scenery of the coastline. She is wearing a thick and glamorous fur coat that looks as though it could be made out of the pelt of a polar bear and black sun shades that Jackie Kennedy herself probably wore. The hood that she has upon her does not restrict her shoulder length silky brown hair from falling snuggingly across her neck and chest. Her hands are warmed up nice and cozy inside of her warm jacket pockets.
She is strolling along the waterfront slowly and gingerly, and she apparently does not see dark character hunched over about 50 yards ahead of her. She continues to walk.
As she approaches nearer and nearer to the dusky frame of the man, the crunching of her footsteps smacking on top of the fresh white powder the man looks up as he hears the noise. He stares at her for a second, his deep eyes fill with sorrow, then satisfaction, and finally vengeance. His breath is quivering out of his lips in strokes of hot whimpers.
The moment that the woman stopped getting closer and starting getting further from the man, a black six gun appears in the palm of the man’s right hand which has now been drawn from the inside of the his jacket. He opens up the wheel one last time to make sure his one desolate bullet is in position with the hammer. His hand then rises up and is pointed in the direction of the woman in white and his thumb cocks the gun.
The sound of the iron cocking freezes her heart and stops her in her tracks. She turns around and casts her eyes toward the man in black. “I knew that you would come sometime,” she says towards the man after a few moments of brisk silence.
His revolver wavers slightly. The woman takes off her sunglasses, drops them, and slowly walks towards the doleful man.
“There was a part of me that dreamed of you. That dreamed that you would never find me. But I knew that you would. That you had to. “
The crunching of the snow and her whispery voice are the only noises.
“You look good. Better than last time I saw you.”
The man’s sooty clothing has been gathering flecks of white and all of those little sparkles have begun to transform his jacket into a lighter color with every passing minute.
“You see Nick or Lily? Never mind. Forget I said that, it was a dumb question.”
The woman is only a few yards from the man now and his barrel is still pointed towards her.
“I have really missed you, if you can believe it. I always did say that I could look into your eyes forever and I guess that I never got a good enough serving of them.”
She is directly in front of the gun and man. She falls onto her knees as moisture begins to condense in her eyes.
“You have no idea what I’ve been through and I know that you don’t care. I swear to you that I am sorry for everything I’ve done.”
A single tear falls to the ground and freezes soon after it touches the cold powder.
“I would do anything to take it all back but I know you won’t listen.”
The man’s finger is slowly putting pressure onto the trigger.
“Truman, before you do it I need to tell you something”
The bullet is eager to meet the presence presented before it; the man is eager to release it but will none the less miss it when it is gone.
“Thanks for the cigarette.”
The man coughs one single time into his shoulder which sends hundreds of snowflakes into the air and revives his jack to its previous black. He then sets his sight back onto the woman. He looks into her eyes and he hears her lies. He turns his head towards the lonely hill. His eyes set there so he cannot see the woman clearly. He pulls his trigger.
The sound of the gunshot sends the single bird flying away into the endless dark sea. The blood that the bullet threw from the woman’s head destroys the white scene and transfigures it into a new bloody memory.
The man throws the gun onto the ground next to the woman’s corpse. He turns away from the hill and begins to walk in the opposite direction of the woman’s footsteps as the snow stops falling. He doesn’t look back.
Once the man has left, the timely tide slowly washes away the blood, scrubs the gun clean, and erases the footsteps of the man in black.





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steven48 said...
Jun. 16, 2010 at 2:16 pm
So what is up with the line "Thanks for the cigarette"?
 
Seamus25 replied...
Jun. 16, 2010 at 2:42 pm
Interpret as you will.
 
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