Don' Drink No More

A thirsty old man's reminiscence.

Ah Don' Drink No More

11/12/2014

We visit with John this evening. He sits in a forlorn way, a manner that speaks of lost love and sunset and autumn, already snowed over. The way his tears pucker in his unrested eyes, he could be an orphan, but for his haggard visage and grayed countenance. His clothes hang threads about him, straw houses one good sneeze will see him out of. Perhaps a traveler, or a vagrant then. Wholly unpresentable is he, distasteful to behold. He sits not in fear of this, but in cold indifference; its been years since John's cared of the world, or the world for he. He smells of age and solitude and cheap alcohol.

“But ah don' drink no more -”

and the walls echo back; its been a while since he's had company, and the place looks it. Clothes weeks old litter the floor like an ocean. Plates from when he was last ate stack on cluttered tables, the mold almost animate on them. An empty house, occupied by an even emptier man �" he the vagrant, John who -

“- don' drink no more -”

says he, in a voice cracked by cigarettes and disuse. The house is sticky with smoke, the couch riddled with burn marks. John coughs, phlegm and whiskey-smell swirling with the smoke for a most noxious mixture. The smell would put him on his bum, but he sat already �" reclining carelessly in his creaky chair. His fingers flex strangely beside him, perhaps in yearning for his shepherd Shelly, three-years dead and pushing up daisies over yonder. The thought of her almost pushes him to -

“Ah said ah don' drink no more -”

- said with something like emotion on his skeletal face. The house rings its agreement, or its refusal to press the matter. Far be it for a house to lecture its master on his doings. The house settles and is quiet, the quiet that precedes sleep, and tragedy, and death. John notes not the silence, for he rests there always; it's been a while since he's had company. He sits in his squalor, content to be lonely, and angry, and drunk.

“Ah don' drink no more -”

but he sure could use it. Lonely tastes better with scotch. His fingers flex beside him again; he's thinking of his shepherd, and the daisies. Standing on shaky legs, lurching towards buried Shelly.

Through the patio, towards the grave. It's a shallow undignified thing, carved with mournful abandon. A tragedy to dig the poor thing up �" regret or something like it colors John's face, even as he tears his fingernails off prying the dirt loose. He cracks the coffin open, sensing my proximity but more concerned for his prize �" blue-bottle Shelly. He presses his lips against the shepherd coffin, smiling, even as the scythe swings and -

SSSHHHHHLLLLLLUUPPPPPP.

Author's Note

Let me know what you "Really" think. Even a "it blows" will suffice my ego. I just want some genuine feedback - from someone besides my mother and German shepherd.