with everything sanitized,
all the pieces put back in their respective places,
a harmony playing in the background,
knowing the order of it all will not last,
not in this place,
not at this time,
but a dimension exists where it’s always clean,
not a single worry about microorganisms invading
and microbial battles occurring all around
because it’s all been swept away,
harvested by the guys in the hazmat suit,
strolling by as they drag each corpse
to their respective place
the world smells like coffee dust
swimming in the back of the throat
as I try to catch my breath
in the cold air that punctures
and stabs,
with a lack of a hold,
the quickness to it all settles,
escape among the free doesn’t exist,
because it’s already there
I can admit when I messed up. I don’t like to, and sometimes I’ll deny it until I’m caught, but generally speaking, I like to think that I can admit to my own mistakes.
You’re holding a gun to my head.
Well, yeah, but that seems like a mistake on your part.
How do you mean?
I certainly didn’t tell you to come to work today. You came to that conclusion all yourself.
So, because I came to work, to work for money so I can keep feeding, clothing, and sheltering my family, I’m the one at fault.
Not necessarily. Though, really, who’s to say that there needs to be someone culpable at this moment.
Me. The guy with a gun pointed at him.
And now you’re confronted with your own mortality.
And…
How does it feel? The last time I almost died I kept smelling burnt oreos roasting over a pile of mangos covered in lighter fluid.
That’s odd. No, that’s more than odd. It’s oddly specific. I don’t think anyone can say they’ve ever smelled such a smell.
I did. When I almost died a few years back. I smelled that exact smell.
But from what context?
What do you mean?
Usually when someone references a specific sort of smell such that they’re referencing having actually smelled what they’re describing.
Not always.
At least with this situation.
You’re getting caught up on the wrong detail.
Oh yeah, you still have that thing pointed at me. Is it even loaded?
The gun?
Yeah!
Of course, yeah. Why? Do you think I would bring an unloaded gun to threaten you with? Do you think I assume everyone I meet is a coward and would simply do what I asked of them just by waving this thing around? Because that would be awesome. This thing would pay for itself and then some. But no, alas, sometimes I have to shoot people.
You’ve killed another person before?
I never said anything about killing anyone. Though I guess I don’t always stick around to see the outcome. And it’s not like I’m going to do a wellness check on the people I robbed.
You’ve admitted to quite a few crimes.
I guess.
Then just admit that you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s a crime, and, man, I really wish you’d put that thing away because you’re making me incredibly nervous swinging it around like that. I haven’t resisted. I’ll give you the money you want. Just put the damn gun away.
I fell for that once. The guy was all adamant and everything. Really made me believe that he’d give me all his money if I just simply put down the gun. But you know what happened the moment I put it down? He pulled out his own shotgun from under the register and shot me. Nearly killed me, too. That’s when I had that near-death experience, you know, with the burnt oreos and the whatnots. I’m not falling for that again. The gun stays up and on guard until I leave.
Fine. But I still say there’s no need for theatrics. You could’ve just asked.
Fred Aiken Writing 