In a dimly lit rundown room of a motel, out in the middle of nowhere, a man sat and contemplated his next move. Cigarette smoke, mingled with the aroma of musk, hung in the air. A golden brown acoustic guitar was leaning on a stand in the corner by the bed. Papers laid scattered across a round table in the opposite corner, beneath a bourbon colored light fixture.
Stacks of money sat on the nightstand next to a grimy overflowing ashtray and a bottle of half-empty whisky. A demon skull overlaid on a red X, decorated the label of the bottle. Mangy maroon drapes were drawn to allow the near full moon to shed her light into the room.
Silver streaked black hair slicked back over his oblong head, with a few strands dangled over the right side of his wide forehead. Scars decorated his greasy, hollow cheekbones, while a deep cleft split down his chin. Stubble spread like a rash across his face and down his neck. His electric blue eyes told a forlorn tale of a tragic life gone wrong, while shaded bags under his eyes whispered tales of sleepless nights.
He sat on the bed propped up on both hands, with his elbows locked. His gangly right leg crossed over his left knee and his head cocked back on his shoulders. He was looking at the ceiling or some unseen presence.
A little black leather-bound book laid on the bed next to him. Its pages wore coffee stains, cigarette burns, and were yellow and faded from use.
He perched forward, grabbed and scanned the book for a brief moment before tossing it to the pillow. The clock read 4 a.m. He let out an exasperated sigh, sauntered over to the table, grabbed a handful of papers and tossed them in the air.
It had been far too long. Time grew stale over the weeks since he last had visitors. He went to the other corner, grabbed his guitar and began strumming a few chords. The somber tune fell dead on muted walls. He went outside, propped a chair against the wall and played to the predawn sky.
A warm southern breeze whistled through the vacant courtyard. He heard voices echo through the desert canyons to the southeast. The ghostly chatter sparked his mood. Perhaps today he’ll entertain some passersby.
He cracked a cold smile across his stony face as he picked a haunting tune on his guitar. Today may yet be prosperous… Do you want to read the rest? The full version is available on my Patreon.
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© Alan “Jedi” Zaugg 2018