Drool Hung Stubbonly - Part Two

Sunday's post started with just an image I was trying to capture with words. I had no inclination to take it any further. Writing it was my effort to compose something out of nothing. I also needed a break from the heel nippers, the liars and the fools that have overrun our airwaves lately in their bid to put their man in the White House. Writing about something completely unrelated seemed a step in the right direction.

I feel this writing thing is improved in baby steps. So being happy that I even came close to what I had envisioned was fine. But Middle Ditch, a friendly stranger from over the pond stopped by to comment. Middle Ditch is an audio blog of more than a few participants. The format reminds me of the old days of serial radio plays. Or rather the reel to reel tapes my father had copies of and the few Nick Danger and Fire Sign Theater records I have now lost. Check it out. I liked it very much. British twists on their "Heartland" concerns starts the saga and it quickly gets ugly soon after. I recommend starting with episode one.

Anyway Middle Ditch suggested I continue the story or idea. I did.

First there was this with a slight edit -

Drool clung stubbornly to the corners of his blackened curled lips, its gooey consistency fighting gravity's will. Yellow teeth, cracked or missing fell in step with those lips as they twisted into what he considered a smile. A strand of spittle finally touched down on his chin. Breathing faster, he leaned in close. His one good eye sparkled while his other socket sat vacant. Plugged with scar tissue behind a 1936 Liberty Head Dime.

And I now follow it with this -

In the beginning he had been a great tool, a fine weapon that struck from afar. Now he had to be close to his game, as close as close could be. The years, the scars and wounds of past battles had left his senses blunted, stunted and worn. Sneaking in like a thief was all he had now for intimate contact to be made.

Once the hunt had seemed so noble, his quarry, easy to find. But years, no really decades had passed and now he gazed upon barren lands. Time had become dreary existence. He remembered once wanting to quit. Faded and dim, his memories of self had been destroyed as he fell into another’s service, serving another’s whim. He became The Recruiter. He shanghaied weaker minds.

Recruiter got right to it. Shook off his self loathing, his angst and all his self doubt. “Regrets were for losers”, he figured. "Owning this soul is what it's all about"

His breath came quicker, slicker and abrupt. He sucked the air in, yet no air came back out. Lungs furiously pumping, Recruiter began robbing, stealing this space of its oxygen. Saving it, mutating it through guts maladjusted in Hell.

He stopped........ Moments passed as he twisted his head this way and that. Dropping even closer over his innocent prey, Recruiter opened his great jaws. What had once been fine air burst forth in toxic stinking grunts.

The figure under feather quilts in unconscious tranquil repose stirred ever so slightly. A soft moan, or was it more a tentative groan that disturbed the silence? Recruiter blinked the good eye once, and blinked it then again. When his target breathed in, he raised a crooked finger. With a harsh whisper Recruiter began this odd chant.

“Wither thou kindness
Futile to decline
All that was in you
Is now, all of it mine”
“Harry! Harry, wake up! You fell asleep again with the TV on. The Republicans will be at it again tomorrow. Come to bed.”

Later............

PS - Thanks to Middle Ditch for her goosing me here. This was tough to write and get it close to what I think was what I wanted. I noticed I seemed to have fallen in some kind of rhythm here. Almost like I should have made the whole thing a poem or something. But I ain't no poet or rather, I ain't no good poet. So I kept it the way you see it.

Another note on this - I had no clue or plan of where the initial image would take me. I just started writing. Damn it was fun. The editing time sucked though.