Will Sinch
01-31-2010, 05:15 AM
Man behind the mask
Dust blew its billowing grain at my uncovered skin; the dry heat did nothing to sooth the pain.
My forearms stung, my neck chaffed. But my face felt nothing, I was wearing my mask.
A woman smiled in my direction, a mother wearing a sundress of white. My mask was handsome. I had made it so.
Vehicles were parked by the corner store; beat up mustangs and minivans, all of which carried the mark of dust and sun bleached paint. Texas, I like the lone star. I am the lone star.
The creak of the screen door alerts the clerk of my presence, he continues his grimy paper back read without a glance in my direction.
I ignore him in return; he is not what I want.
There she is, across the isle. Blue eyes laugh, red curls wave, hips sway in a tantalizing dance of life. I spot her. I shoot.
The crack of the revolver sends the customers shrieking, the clerk is no longer so indifferent. His open mouthed shock amuses me.
I turn and walk out, my work is done, and I have done it well.
A gust of wind pastes a newspaper to the store window for a moment.
And therein lies a picture of the dead woman, with the title,
“THREE CHILDREN MURDERD, MURDERER STILL AT LARGE”.
My work is done, and I have done it well.
Dust blew its billowing grain at my uncovered skin; the dry heat did nothing to sooth the pain.
My forearms stung, my neck chaffed. But my face felt nothing, I was wearing my mask.
A woman smiled in my direction, a mother wearing a sundress of white. My mask was handsome. I had made it so.
Vehicles were parked by the corner store; beat up mustangs and minivans, all of which carried the mark of dust and sun bleached paint. Texas, I like the lone star. I am the lone star.
The creak of the screen door alerts the clerk of my presence, he continues his grimy paper back read without a glance in my direction.
I ignore him in return; he is not what I want.
There she is, across the isle. Blue eyes laugh, red curls wave, hips sway in a tantalizing dance of life. I spot her. I shoot.
The crack of the revolver sends the customers shrieking, the clerk is no longer so indifferent. His open mouthed shock amuses me.
I turn and walk out, my work is done, and I have done it well.
A gust of wind pastes a newspaper to the store window for a moment.
And therein lies a picture of the dead woman, with the title,
“THREE CHILDREN MURDERD, MURDERER STILL AT LARGE”.
My work is done, and I have done it well.