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| Box of Lilies https://forums.nukesilo.net/viewtopic.php?f=109&t=7618 |
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| Author: | Praphet [ 14 Mar 2009, 17:38 ] |
| Post subject: | Box of Lilies |
Box of Lilies a TSRP short by Psalms Henry Alistair strolled down the road along the curb, his old bones carrying him nimbly enough over storm-drains and past the litter and beer-cans that lay just outsid the bar. A tall, white-haired man in his sixties, Henry seemed as mean and cold as he did out-of place, almost comical. Between his lips, a cigarette burned, shedding light upon the scraggly beard on his face, the constant grimace that contorted his mouth, and the cold, hard stare with which he observed the world around him. Under his left arm he clutched a long box of white flowers, the package about four feet long; he carried it much heavier than an ordinary man would with ordinary flowers. There, in the circle of pale illumination street-light on the end of his road, a figure appeared, a man in a leather jacket with a pair of sunglasses, tooth-pick between his teeth. Crossing back onto the sidewalk as a car passed by, Henry picked up his pace, his long, gangly fingers gripping at the box of flowers. The man under the streetlight spotted him, looking up over his sunglasses. "Hold up, old man! Slow down!" the leather-jacket punk said between chuckles. "You're gonna give yourself a heart-attack!" Almost growling with visible fury, Henry brought up his right hand into a fist, and clocked the punk across the face; the punk staggered, reached back to his waist-band, and came back with a .45 Pistol, trying to draw as quickly as he could. Gripping the slide firmly, it was apparent age had not heavily deteroriated his strength; with a vicious motion, Henry forced the gun back, hammering in the man's face, and breaking his sunglasses. As the punk rolled over into the curb, Henry took a moment to turn away, and toss the weapon into the storm-drain behind him. The punk crawled up to his hands and knees and stared with dazed confusion as the old man tossed out his cigarette, and began opening the flower-box he had gripped so firmly before. The bleeding street-thug pulled the shattered sunglasses off of the bridge of his busted nose, and gave a look of sheer terror. Henry ripped the box open, and tore out what he needed; gripping the stock of his double-barrelled shotgun, he hefted it out, showering lilies to the ground around torn cardboard and bits of packaging tape. Bringing both hammers back, he stared down at his target, who tried to stagger up with weak knees. "It always astounds me, you know that?" he growled again in a scratchy, low tone. "Punks like you, out on parole, out in my streets. You think no one notices the drugs, the dead bodies? Nobody misses their dead relatives? I notice." "Hey, take it easy!" the punk begged, throwing up his hands. "I swear to God, I don't know what you're--" Both barrels thundered off in the night in a deafening, awful noise, the muzzle flash reflecting off parked cars and dim store-fronts with a brilliant glare. His ears still ringing, his shotgun still smoking, Henry gazed over both empty barrels at the damage; the man's leather jacket was blown out with most his chest, blood drooling out of his mouth. With that same look of terrified surprise, the punk's head lolled over to the side lazily, resting in the curb. A few lights flickered on in the Apartment across the street; Henry tucked the shotgun under his arm, and picked up a single flower, tucking it into his shirt-pocket. He gave one last look at the poor bastard he had gunned down like a dog, and stepped over the carcass, careful not to get anything on his shoes. |
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