Robert W. Flournoy


When the blackness arrives, it is just there. There is no dusk or twilight, just a sudden nauseating midnight. If you’ve been in this place before then it scares you because you know what it has in mind for you and you don’t know if it is here to stay, or if it is just going to fuck around with you for a little while. I wonder if you have to come up out of the pain at its’ first glint and rage against it. Maybe that is an initial effective antidote; if acts of defiance prevent it from establishing a beach head, or if concessions and appeasement make the ultimate war more difficult. Maybe it will just go away by itself later in the day, like a short virus, regardless of how you confront it. An extended fight will kill me the next time. I have no heart for it, now that I know the brutality of such a terror. So I clean the garage in a frenzy, furiously lift weights like a young man, run farther faster than my age can withstand for very long, talk too loud, and drink way to much with a forced bravado and energy, a bonfire with loud drums and spear brandishing against the night. I paint my face and turn to the forest, plain to see, screaming for a head on confrontation to kill the beast. Come on you son of a bitch, I’m right here where you can see me and I am ready for you. But the buzzard just sits there out of sight, lurking, waiting, knowing that you must come looking.