(Photo Credit: Crispina Kemp)
“High Noon Lane” – a glorified name for an inglorious location. An unassuming resting place for an unknown segment of humanity. They all lay here surrounded by an untenanted and untended grassy mound. The reluctantly sprouting flowers hid many secrets. Secrets brimming with euphoria and bursting with angst.
My neighbor had a hard time procuring his final resting place. Racked by poverty he required the intervention of the local gravedigger to get six feet under in peace and quiet. A combination of insult and intransigence prevented him from indulging in any conversation, meaningful or mediocre.
But the inveterate chatterbox that I am, my comrade’s reticence did not hold me back from sharing my sordid story with him. I even detected in him a shiver, when I narrated how the .22 caliber tore into my breast when upon going to meet her, I was greeted by a fusillade of betrayal and bullets.
(Word Count: 150)
Written as part of the Crimson’s Creative Challenge #19 More details regarding this challenge may be found HERE.