Eamon sat on the porch of a house he did not live in. He looked out at the road ahead. It was dusty, one-way, leading away from the trees to flatlands that spanned the horizon and sat lonely with the sun sometimes at the end of the day, when it had tired of hanging in the sky lighting the way for the lost. It would fall, swap tales with the land before disappearing to rest. The moon would kick up its heels, hum a tune, man the post for a few hours. Sometimes only half-there. Eamon picked at his lips. He peeled strips of crackled skin, flicked them away. Touched his hand to his face. Looked down at the red puddles pooling on the skin of his fingers. Squinted in the sunlight. Sighed, peeled another strip.
In the dim street light, the radio hummed slowly through the night. Hugged close by a thin layer of sleet in the middle of the road sat the car the radio belonged to. At this hour there might be a couple of dogs barking, rummaging through the evening’s throwaways in the dumpsters lining the side-alleys, fighting for scraps. There were none. Their thick winter coats betrayed their warmth. The car’s headlights dimmed in the fog, two peering eyes in the evening. Waiting. The engine slowed to a murmur. Bedside lamps went cold. [Dark Was The Night.]
(illustration by Paul Blow)