the stars are out on this rusty night
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
Radiotopes made for beautiful sunsets. We sat upon Mouldy Hill, a battle scarred zit over seeing the Quiet City. The rusty three footed birds would squack their car alarm songs as my wife watched the sun dip into the earth blister scarred hand in hand. We sat and pointed at the husks of cars, mining our memories for names and models. Half finished skeletons. Paint stripped back like skin, deperately trying to keep their tenacious hold on the metal frame. There were no others outside. The rest sayed unground like fearful moles. We came out once a year, like groundhogs to watch the sky on the longest night. It wasn't scientific.
The dogs came to us, blender mixed snouts and half formed ears. They sniffed our sterilized suits, smelling like ghosts to their canine noses. My wife tossed the pup a branch from a twisted oak. The dog stared at us like aliens. They had forgotten to fetch. They left us as quickly as they came, hobbled paw prints following them like an elongated tail. Life had survived up here, a carnival reflection of what it had been.
I pulled a canteen of water of out my backback, connecting the hose to my face plate, savouring the clean taste like wine. My wife flicked on a rusty hand light and made sketches of the night life. Moths the size of fists. Night bees darting in and out of piano husks, harvesting brain matter and carion. I laid down on the grass and stared at the shattered moon. The stars blinked in morse code. They asked us how it could turn out like this. I didn't have an answer.
Radiotopes made for beautiful sunsets. We sat upon Mouldy Hill, a battle scarred zit over seeing the Quiet City. The rusty three footed birds would squack their car alarm songs as my wife watched the sun dip into the earth blister scarred hand in hand. We sat and pointed at the husks of cars, mining our memories for names and models. Half finished skeletons. Paint stripped back like skin, deperately trying to keep their tenacious hold on the metal frame. There were no others outside. The rest sayed unground like fearful moles. We came out once a year, like groundhogs to watch the sky on the longest night. It wasn't scientific.
The dogs came to us, blender mixed snouts and half formed ears. They sniffed our sterilized suits, smelling like ghosts to their canine noses. My wife tossed the pup a branch from a twisted oak. The dog stared at us like aliens. They had forgotten to fetch. They left us as quickly as they came, hobbled paw prints following them like an elongated tail. Life had survived up here, a carnival reflection of what it had been.
I pulled a canteen of water of out my backback, connecting the hose to my face plate, savouring the clean taste like wine. My wife flicked on a rusty hand light and made sketches of the night life. Moths the size of fists. Night bees darting in and out of piano husks, harvesting brain matter and carion. I laid down on the grass and stared at the shattered moon. The stars blinked in morse code. They asked us how it could turn out like this. I didn't have an answer.
posted by Rob at 1:08 a.m.
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