sputnik II

“his father is missing. she sits beside him and talks to him. mildly at first, and then in halting words. no questions of why or how. only his words slid out of him. they’re not of a dam breaking; his words are simply a church window with small cracks, water seeping out. he hates his father, and thinks of the search activity as a routine, like a dental clinic visit or a dull confession. she doesn’t hug him. his sadness trips around the room. her mind swings between him and her female friend who has lost her orbit. too much loss of direction. where is the east? she asks herself.

she goes to a bar, and smokes haltingly. she asks the bartender questions, and puts him off with his malicious replies. i should get a gun, she thinks. not to shoot people, but to shoot myself for thinking too much. about him, about his father, about her. the song in her player goes, say good night and go. she’s been saying goodnight, but simply doesn’t go.

she brushes dust off her arms and wonders where to go next. the night is not friendly for people who can’t sleep. for them, the moon burns in anger, as furious as the sun, only colder. the moon knows where people hide, it has pockmarks because it holds all secrets in. tomorrow noon, she will try to go to the moon, and squeeze the cold and its stash out of it. it is one way of saving her friends, one way of ending this charade of hiding, not being ever found.”

my first take for my six-liner story:
door falls, they gasp, he shoots.
>> how did i do, sir adel?<<


One thought on “sputnik II

  1. Adel says:

    Bravo. Tarantino fiction.

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