A
Painter's Ghost
Clifford
K. Watkins, Jr.
***Excerpt
from NEW NOVELLA***
The
drifter carries a small shovel to dig his own grave
he stands eerily beside a gravel road
unable to measure his soul
having fled his life on the path to freedom that he never finds
he never escapes his mind
the labyrinth inside
dirt descends from his hourglass hands into a shallow hole
he knows everything
yet wants nothing
he displays his scars to remind himself that he was once alive
he impales himself with invisible knives
and hurls himself into a unmarked grave
as a random stranger oozes from his eyes
hello
god
goodbye devil
today
I'm the drifter
ugly
unkempt
walking into the sun
ready to vanish like singing skulls rolling into oblivion
and tomorrow
no one remembers him
Staring into a four-paned window, watching the children walk across
the trestle, a boy gathered seven flat stones and gave them faces
with a broken green crayon. He arranged the rocks in a specific
order: from largest to small. He counts the rocks using his fingers
and realizes that one is missing. Although the faces would probably
appear similar to an onlooker, each one was distinct in the child's
mind. Sitting on the concrete slab beneath a passing train, the
boy picked up each stone, one at a time and gave them names. The
sun-warmed concrete vibrated long after the train faded into a
memory. Staring into the sun, witnessing a million tomorrows,
the rocks began to pulsate and breathe. In the distance, a large
stranger walked slowly across the sleepers, carrying a small shovel,
favoring his right leg.
At about three in the morning, the silent echoes of a large stranger
walking on the sleepers woke Painter Andrews from a bizarre dream.
He remembered seeing an old woman in a room full of wig heads,
painting a girl's face in the light of a music box. Feeling somewhat
parched, he went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. As
the water slowly ran, he stood with his fingers under the faucet
waiting for the temperature to drop because someone had forgotten
to fill the ice trays. He filled a glass of water and drank it
down in one fell swoop. As he walked across the splintered floor,
a chill ran up his spine and the phone began to ring. The hair
on his neck stood up as he walked toward the phone. By the time
he answered the phone, his heart was racing and his hands were
trembling wet. He stood looking at his crippled left hand, shaking
his head, trying to remember the rest of the dream.
***
Clifford
K. Watkins, Jr., is a writer/poet/lyricist/rapper originally
from High Point, North Carolina. Some of his publishing credits
include: Underground Window, Endzville, Infinite
Glass, Prism Quarterly, Cynic Magazine, Seeker
Magazine, Oracular Tree, Poetic Voices, Ygdrasil,
Poetry Stop, Zygote In My Coffee, Wildchild Publishing,
Forever Underground Magazine, Muscadine Lines, Poet's
Haven, Lit Vision, Interpoetry, Canopic Jar,
Winamop, Long Story Short, TM Poetry, The
Toe Tree Journal, The Persistent Mirage, A Darker
Vision, Emptiness Spills, Red Fez, Words
Words Words, Vain Glory, The Voyager, Tears
For Eternity, and Green Brier Review.
A
Painter's Ghost is Clifford's first novella: a nonstop psychological
thriller told from a drifter's unique perspective--a four-pane
window. Purchase
at www.lulu.com/hollowofmockery1070.
©
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.