Genre: Experimental noir
Last night had been filled with stars, soft music from her lips. Promises.
This morning it is fog and mud. Mold and glass rings on my kitchen table. It could be Monday but it’s not.
A scribbled note: Goodbye. Unsigned.
Smell of cheap perfume and the drumbeat of a lost fly trying in vain escaping through the window-pane. I’m in decay.
In my fridge a half-filled can of beer, stained with lipstick, It’s the closest thing to a morning kiss I’ll get today. I sip it slowly recalling smell of rotting teeth. Hers.
It’s time to plan for night again. Hunt.
First I have to apologize to Rochelle for using her wonderful kitchen view to create something so filled with filth. I think my inspiration came more from the foggy fields outside. Secondly I try to be a little bit more experimental here, using single-word incomplete sentences, but I’m curious how it works to create an impression from a Nighthawk’s morning. Therefore I join the concrit subgroup this week. There is some intentional ambiguity here, and I see that several things could have happened, and will happen.
Friday Fictioneers is a blog-group who every week try to capture a story in 100 words from the same image. The group is headed by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and to learn more you can go visit her site.
December 16, 2015