In Memory of Duane.

Warm and viscous drops of sweat and blood drip down the side of my arm. My hands tremble whilst I bend over on my knees and kneel. A sigh resonates deep through my hollow lungs.

While thunder rumbles from afar, rain drops start dripping. For a short while my mind wanders off. Off to gentler places and better days. For that we had many.

How did I get here?

I stare at the dying embers, as if the answers would present themselves dancingly in the fire.

In a moment of courage, I move my gun over towards the rear of the head, just between the ears. The hairs bristle through my fingers while, for a moment, my finger trembles upon the trigger.

A hollow, compressed shockwave follows as a loud crack echo’s in between the hillsides.

In memory of Duane, he was a good horse.

1808–1821

--

--

--

Love podcasts or audiobooks? Learn on the go with our new app.

Recommended from Medium

Liminal Beauty

T.S. Eliot In Prose

V4. Freedom

In the wake of things and as things awake I hope you dare to be brave.

The Day They Came

A Temple I’m Afraid to Touch

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Ray Luca

Ray Luca

More from Medium

What is The Muse?

Winter Confessions — A Series

Problems faced by a kanjoos.