An Intense Natural Death

DOA.

They took one look at him and scowled, asking the driver why he was here and not the morgue.

Well look at him! He’s stone cold.
What about the autopsy?
What about it?
He had TB. And apparently some enemies.
So send him to the morgue.

Bodies, the smell of gunpowder, and screaming. The gun was empty, and he was the last one alive. He lit his cigarette but had to stop when his hand started to shake. He wondered where she was. Suddenly there was black fluttering in the corners of his eyes, like bats. He was closer to the ground, he was bent over, he was coughing. Was that his own blood?

Gravestones, the smell of grass, and weeping. The grave was fresh, and he was lost in thought. He lit a cigarette but didn’t smoke. He wondered if she suffered. The knife was clean but his hands were dirty. He walked away cold, in need of a gun. See you later. Was that her voice in his head?

Raindrops, the smell of perfume, and quiet conversation. The fire was warm, and he was not dried. He lit his cigarette but something interupted him. He wondered what finally made her quit. She told him he was shortening his life by smoking. He inhaled but had to stop when the coughing started. He felt dizzy but managed to stay upright. It didn’t matter anyway.

White lights, the smell of sickness, and pens scribbling. The bed was uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to be there. He reached for his cigarettes but realized they had taken his clothes elsewhere. He wondered where she was. The doctor told him they didn’t have long, especially if they smoked the last few days away. He stood and left.

Leaves, the smell of fire, and crunching footsteps. The day was bright, but the air was cold. She handed him a cigarette and then lit her own. She asked him if he loved her and he said yes. They walked close together but didn’t hold hands. They avoided each others’ eyes. It didn’t matter anyway.

Reviews

[Gary Alexander Azerier]

You are obviously a talented writer. Lots of terrific stuff in here. For me, I would have appreciated a little more continuity...a little more form...cohesiveness. You could have engaged your character more...revealed his conflict more clearly. There could have been connectives. But what with the depth of thought, character and observations (really super) I would have wanted to see this expanded. As it stands now, it could almost be a poem. Still, I must note your lines: "gunpowder and screaming...gravestones, grass and weeping...raindrops, perfume and quite conversation...white lights, smell of sickness and pens scribbling..." are brilliant. Don't waste these.
Good luck,
GA