Moth

 by  Bruce Rowe 

diet cola

I’m not sure how I ended up here, lying face up with my throbbing head in a puddle of storm water or street-dweller piss. All I know is that it’s warm. My vision is blurred and no matter how often I blink or squint my eyes they won’t focus. I do notice what appears to be a blue neon light over a red door. Looks like a single letter; a capital I or a T with the cross burned out. It flickers at times.

I try to raise my head but there’s no feeling in my neck, arms or legs. Paralyzed? I can’t even roll on my side. I do have the thick taste of iron in my mouth. Maybe blood but I’m not sure.  I can’t even spit.I feel a soft breeze brush by my cheek; it’s bitter cold. I hope I’m not lying in the street to get ran over by a car.

That’s right! I got the crap beat out of me. But why? I have to think, but even that hurts. Surely if someone saw me, they would have called 911. But I don’t hear any voices. Actually, I don’t hear anything at all.

Ok, let’s start with the basic’s; my name is Justin…Justin MacAnally, no McNally; I’m 27 years old and live in downtown Chicago, Illinois. You’re doing good, J. Now, what do I do for a living? Oh
Jesus, I’m a freaking Card-Shark, a Sharpie! Well that explains a hell-of-a-lot. Memory’s flushing back now.

Ryan and I have been fleecing these four fools for an easy two grand a week. Freaking hand-muck amateurs. Our strategy was that Ryan and I would take turns folding midway into a game. Then, out of good sportsmanship, we would serve the others drinks; keep the glasses full and the mind dull.

That was until William, Bill he like to be called ˗ the fat one whose stinking sweat always soaked  through his Charles Tyrwhitt shirt and was constantly dabbing his furrowed forehead with a matching kerchief from his jacket pocket ˗ saw Ryan giving me signals on who had what cards.

Ryan was the smart one. He sprinted out of the back room, through the club and out the front door before I could crap my pants, which I probably have.

Marty grabbed me and threw me on the floor while Fat Bill, Brawny Stew, and Fried Freddy kicked the bejesus out of me until I went unconscious. Then tossed me in the alley like a piece of garbage.

Pain is starting to swell over my body. Not the feeling I was hoping would return. My vision’s a little better. I can see a large, brown moth lying flat against the brick wall just above the red door. I wonder if that spirit transference crap my great grandma taught me is for real. Now would be as good a time as any for it to happen.Concentrate. Blood is coming up my throat and starting to pour out of my nose. Suffocation is right around the corner. All is fading.

Ah, much better, no pain. The moth is still dominate, but that’s ok. I’ll find a more suitable body in the morning. Looking down I notice my head was lying in a pool of blood. Low-life bastards.

The moth flaps its wings rising off the brick wall and heads toward the blue neon light.

“Ah, damn!”

A loud “Pop, Crackle” then smoke.

About the author

Bruce Rowe was born in the Deep South where he gained an affinity for myths and folklore. He has been writing since 2009. He has short stories published at Spillwords.com,  Dastaanworld.com. and Cafelit. Some of those stories can be viewed here. His story, ‘The Rider, hasbeen nominated as Publication of the Month in October 2018 at Spillwords. He now resides in southern California with his wife Donna.

 

The Lonely Macchiato

by Bruce Rowe 

coffee, gone cold, in a paper cup

He shuffles down 4^th street, taking no more than a few inches per step.

His skin is leathered and brown. He is clothed in light brown khaki’s and a frayed green flight jacket.

He shuffles his way to a nook in a doorway, 3830 4^th Street, and slumps down to rest from his long travels.

He draws a cigarette from a coat pocket and illuminates the unfiltered end with shaking hands.

Sunspots decorate his alopecic scalp where hair once adorned.

His beard is white and long, tousled and unkempt.

He observes pedestrians meander by, himself going unnoticed.

After a space of time, two sonatas, and one ballad from my radio, he slowly rises to his unsure but steady feet.

He drops his cigarette on the sidewalk, charred to the filter. With two clumsy steps extinguishes it with the sole of his tattered shoe.

He appears to scuff his way toward my vehicle. I look down to read the book I held…or at least pretend to.

After a few small steps, he turns back to the store from where he rested. Relief and shame overwhelm me.

He makes it to the clear store window. In the clean glass, he sees his reflection.

He brushes the surface of his ragged locks and beard with his soiled fingers.

He smiles.

Tears well in my eyes.

He slowly turns in a new direction, shuffling on his way, smiling.

There he goes…a child of God.

About the author 

Bruce lives in southern California and has self-published. He is now seeking to have short stories,  poems and  flash stories published.