Splat Like Mustard…

The night was filled with cold air and vapour waves through the quiet morning streets. The moon danced vapid above them like their drunken uncle home early from a bender. The two spirits wafted on the breeze twisting themselves thin as the wind bore them down to the earth, the streets bellow them were a note away from silence, the church organs beckoning them down played a lone G held for some minutes. The pair broke for an instant before joining hands as their feet felt ground. She adorned an oversized green and mustard orange bomber jacket, many pockets for the effects she carried on her. Her opaque black tights bunched at her ankles at a pair of well-worn vintage hiking boots, mustard with red and forest laces. He wore the same torn blue jeans he always did when he visited the amber streets, with his white tee shirt tucked hurriedly into the high waist, his shoulder pouch tapped lightly against his lumber as his feet braced for landing, his eyes tired and black from watching his wrecked skate shoes.
This was the way the due prefer to travel light limber liberal. And with no languish of the longevity of their trip, nor the accompanying odor. No these two were nomads tougher than ash packed to a carbon film, yet so small and fragile in this amber meadow, they could be drowned out by any others.
For many of their previous travels there were no words passed in barely spoken exchanges between the pair, they simply walked up the centre of the bronze lit streets pausing in unison to admire the sound moment of magic they would pass. They floated through the slowed strobe of the street lights, all bright closing in around them as the train rattled them on toward the city, in it’s sickeningly clean bulbs.

The pair had no interest in the night. The journey from these far suburbs to this sleepy city had become a tradition one they’d never failed to make, one every visit.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and began texting their contact; he knew when the pair had a habit of arriving. Trusting this and her partners warning she resigned the phone to her top jacket pocket, replacing her fixation with a cigarette, which she lit before offering the pouch to him slumped next to her, jeans ripping at the knee from his lassefair stance.
Down the carriage a group of thugs and lasses were making fluro paint slashes into the pristine white walls.
This was the usual way when they came from the far suburbs, a few ill wasted youths who can’t see their luck.
The train slowed to a stop on a sleepy midnight platform, complete with the sleeping homeless women. The two drifted through the doors landing softly on the beige tiled platform. The incandescent lamps shone through them as they walked past the women asking for spare change.
Her phone vibrated in her mustard pocket.
“5 away”
“be there in 5 – 10 J”
“sweet, see you soon blood”

‘We’re good.’
Her voice was barely audible through the rattling incline of the tunnel and the rattled corrugated plastic.
She kept strolling past him as the train they rode from the dim suburbs shook the steel I beams above. A little dust swanned into the oncoming low voltage tube light’s rays, resting on the centre of her eyebrows. He made three steps toward her before raising his hand to thumb her third eye clean.
‘Thanks, I don’t know what came over me’ she whispered.
The pair stalked down the sub-rail concourse, her hands in her jacket pockets, and his strained behind his head. They walked through the gates, invisible,
just a couple of struggling bohemian ghosts seen frequenting only every worthwhile nook and cranny of the cityscape.
Her contact meant to meet them under the bridge; it was off to the right some six hundred metres. He walked ahead of her; he had a habit of drifting off to some unseen side of himself, by himself.

Same as they had always done he stepped onto the road, braced arms obstructing his view, before a thud and a thin stream of blood running over white tee shirt.
The moon kept watch on her still as the train pulled to the station, the same dusty I beams rattled with it’s passing, though this time no one to wiped her clean, only a contact took three steps to remedy the pain and remember the hallowed seconds prior, and watch were she puts her mustard.

🎍 🍙 👘 🌊

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s