A humid breeze sifts through the screened second-story window of an ambient-lit room where three masculine-lit figures sit slouched in chairs triangulated around a card-table as if the very breath of life has gone stale. The stench of grudging immurement thick in the air pressed against the walls as though an insulator inhibiting any fancy of redemption.
Each breath of wind bittersweet, the insouciant moistened draft mixed with the tired recycled respirations of each man – all silent, alone in their thoughts and absent design. To this uncompromising fate each one condemned, to this resignation of soulnessness each one convicted, without hope of repeal or pardon. The subtraction of precious inspiration now aggregated into this ratio - quality proportioned against existence. The total of this difference, indifference – and the sum of what was to be, void.
Breathing ever more shallow, ever more apathetic in the labor to merely exist, each recounts their memories, their experiences now tasting sour as though the pain of tortured retrospection is all that is left to indulge or to give some measure, some genuineness of purpose. Yet each knows full well this is not the end, rather the means thereunto. The lure of sweet complacency, the prayer for relief whispered nearly silent into the ear of whatever divinity might listen, and give some attentiveness, some amnesty so that they may be assured of the proverbial Elysian peace.
The center of the card-table littered with an ashtray of overflowing cigarette butts, spent pipe tobacco, lighters, and a solar-powered pocket calculator with the numbered keys nearly rubbed off from overuse. Sections of the local newspaper crinkled and refolded are weighted down by the ashtray and calculator, the print stained and smeared from spilled coffee and liquor mixed with soda. The classified section spottily marked and highlighted in fluorescent yellow and circled red permanent marker – noting managerial and trade employment opportunities. Each advertisement having been read dozens of times, the figures transposed and accounted just as many times. Scribbled accounting in desperate hand written numbers line the margins, alongside layman shorthand notes – indecipherable to anyone but the author.
Breaking the silence, one looks up from the table and softly addresses his tablemates, “Are we really prepared to do this?”
Breathing ever more shallow, ever more apathetic in the labor to merely exist, each recounts their memories, their experiences now tasting sour as though the pain of tortured retrospection is all that is left to indulge or to give some measure, some genuineness of purpose. Yet each knows full well this is not the end, rather the means thereunto. The lure of sweet complacency, the prayer for relief whispered nearly silent into the ear of whatever divinity might listen, and give some attentiveness, some amnesty so that they may be assured of the proverbial Elysian peace.
The center of the card-table littered with an ashtray of overflowing cigarette butts, spent pipe tobacco, lighters, and a solar-powered pocket calculator with the numbered keys nearly rubbed off from overuse. Sections of the local newspaper crinkled and refolded are weighted down by the ashtray and calculator, the print stained and smeared from spilled coffee and liquor mixed with soda. The classified section spottily marked and highlighted in fluorescent yellow and circled red permanent marker – noting managerial and trade employment opportunities. Each advertisement having been read dozens of times, the figures transposed and accounted just as many times. Scribbled accounting in desperate hand written numbers line the margins, alongside layman shorthand notes – indecipherable to anyone but the author.
Breaking the silence, one looks up from the table and softly addresses his tablemates, “Are we really prepared to do this?”
Original Articles. Constant-Content.
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