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No dedication, only self-deprecation

Distracted By A Noise In The Wine Cellar

Picby Marc Lionhart20 Mar 2014

The keys of the typewriter clacked and cracked under the callous fingertips of the fruitless heap that lay before it. Troubled by the knocking of his demons at the chipped wooden door, he continue to contribute his memoirs to his memory.

"I'm sorry for your loss" read the most recent line. He is risen, and takes to the window for a modicum of inspiration.


Sits. The last drop of wine is an ocean. He feels a little sick, and maybe a touch morbid. He was quoted: Fuck it! And slumped against the hard back of his poverty throne.

An alarm rings. No, not one of this world, but one in his mind. It's no different from that of nuclear devastation. It coos like the angels of death's siren song. The laughter of the damned.

"How do I silence this!? How do I hear nothing but my own heavy breath on the stale air?"

He reaches for the bottle containing his heart, tips fervently until a mast adorning his vessel. A single drop teeters upon the edge, teasing his outstretched tongue. Yet, it plummets into the wide, toothed abyss to serve its fate. It was alone, as is he.

He may have consumed his only dear friend.

A surge of urgency strikes like lightening to his tree, he slams his hands down on the desk in front of him and calls:


And it hits him. Hits him harder than the brutal sting of his unread words. In the top draw of his desk his escape has been lain, his mortality now his firm case.

A revolver. Encapsulating a single bullet.

He frantically prises open the obstacle standing between himself and the consistency of his eternal stasis. The draw has not been open since it was first closed, it has garnered a fantastic exhibit of dust.

Among the cobwebs and corpses it peers out, his passage of sense. He plunges his hand inside, attaches the weapon to his hand and raises it to the side of his head.

It was then, he was distracted by a noise in the wine cellar...