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