Fiery winds rolled once again along vertebra, melting nerves to a disjointed spine logged up with railroad spikes for confinement. Circles of hornets' nests dangled from a crown of concertina wire and exposed arteries and veins shroud a boiled skeleton of a man, a cloud of smoke in human form.
To speak meant to tear staples from a mandible and maxilla and a tongue's movement lifted internal life upward with rusting hook and fishing line; an esophagus, bore the weight of loose flesh flooding lung and lung.
To walk - never - anchored vessels weighted me down as barges do their mission rivers' long.
To escape was to remorse was to rehabilitate was to redo in an eternal afterlife rung after rung after rung.
To live was in the eye of the beholder, a canvas of recollection smeared beautiful and brash, boyishly and bastard.
The One decided my suffering, despite my attempt at innocence ... and a thunderous clap tapped from a ghostly index counting backward, four, three, two, and one ...
YOU ARE READING
Stepping Walter Dunn
Short StoryThis is an experimental piece written from the perspective of a schizoid manic depressive's hallucination. It is based on what I feel lurks over my shoulder every moment of every day.
