The Last Blow Mystery
There is a poem somewhere. A poem about the things he could never tell to her face – Cheyenne, who cried and wondered and held on to his calves, so he could not walk away. Cheyenne who pleaded, with tears in her eyes, “Don’t leave me please. I’ll be good; I promise. Just don’t leave me! And please tell me why…”
He peeled her fingers off his calves, one by one – those dainty and girly feminine fingers that used to brush his cheek and claw on his back for anchorage – “I can’t anymore,” he said, “and there’s a poem somewhere… the things I cannot tell you.”
“Poem? What poem? What’s in the poem?” beseeched Cheyenne.
“I call it The Last Blow. I cannot tell you about it… not here… not like this… not now.”
“What have I done? Why do you leave? Is it in the poem… the answers?”
He looked at Cheyenne’s eyes – her once innocent and trusting eyes. I took the glimmer from your eyes, Cheyenne… that was why I wrote the last blow.
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Cari's Vignettes
Short StoryA collection of impressions on just about anything and stories told in a certain manner... love, anger, secrets, people, subjects, objects... you name it. There are certain things that can only be expressed through unrestrained writing. A vignette o...
