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Death… a story

The rider was there before, at once a memory and life in motion, but here riding through the desert American-styled in the morning hours prior to sunlight, the rider knew things about this one destination to Biblical, Arizona to a seminal ghost town never to be known. Angela was furious to the point of nearly tears before working at the hospital thirty to forty-five minutes into Scottsdale where her nursing skills led to more hassles anyway, so why and what was the point of getting so frustrated with to accuse Richard of getting high, but when to the extant the world is far larger than at once perceived that questions if it really matters where a junkie finds a dealer in a damn desert if it wasn’t Vegas or Reno….somehow within range of a Blackjack table? While only mere meters away across the street, Mary Anne Henderson was looking in at the sour expression Angela was wearing, staring off into thin air over the roof of her dusty car quite obviously perturbed by some heavy thoughts wondering at the same time if she should interact with Angela. That static moment in fact became another thin layer of dust spreading as the wind blew more than empty fragments once a township, the isolation attracted both of them to this spot on the earth, but aside from the harsh wind there was nothing but a calm heat radiating today. The two women noticed each other in that heartbeat of a moment, occurs occasionally when people reaching inside themselves try slyly to cover their own obvious tracks of mistakes to define ‘flawless’ for ones’ own perceptions later, and proceed for now to wave ‘hello’ to the other just beyond vocal range. Mary was awkward perhaps embarrassed for her hesitation even though Angela was then like a stiff robot for being caught void in thought over Richard’s old habit catching up with him then slumped shoulders indicating she was ready for what the two of them went back to their tasks without skipping a beat, and so ends another of the dead-end almost-a-conversation days leaving both of them quiet and reserved about the triviality for no good reason. While the furthest resident in this no-horse town was the funeral director never met by either lady personally, but knew them exceptionally well because that’s how it is when strange people move here of all places, complication exists narrow for all of us to entrap ourselves. Agree to disagree i suppose for now, but cliches don’t begin to describe divorce from the remnants of a real world to be mocked by waves ordained by culture. Some came but ran from the vultures that are scavenging to survive while picking through the dust for trinkets compared to treasure from lost thoughts to minds tossed aside and asunder casting probable riptides under better circumstances a few clicks off-center for any humans. Which is why i am the only human here and it is everyone within this crumbling connected urge that remains unaware of being dead yet stuck in unrest not knowing it, watching a shard of the territory if i can observe best instead of interacting directly with those kids. The evils in my chest have commanded me and my family to witness and report to the one i call ‘brother’ though at the point when we meet again he will not know me, i could bore you with the details though you would only if one stops listening to that inner voice inside one’s head, and you would rather stay ignorant if i do not keep this interesting for all of us. The rider was this ‘brother’ on his way here to Biblical that isn’t even on a map anymore and my family tree a mere shrub rolling around the desert floor withered and diseased as it was before i got here by this time, but he isn’t arriving here to make up for any familial distance as much to collect his souls treasured and lost like sentimental souvenirs to be repossessed of their sins and dark matters that wash themselves clean when he arrives as the ones named Henderson were supposedly dying, i had the widow a number of times before the husband’s death by poison and the nurse is gone too often to feed her some vapid pick-up lines though her mechanic husband is also poisoning himself through his own will. I cannot die as they are dead without notice therefore i am here in the peaked roof of this parlor in too rustic a condition to sell is where i watch with support to aid my eyes see far away seeing them pray and pout and play, grin and yell and they don’t even know a thing about me or what or why my ‘brother’ is is steadily making the long dark movement to face down these lingering forces. None knows they’re dead they can’t even remember dying so horribly between the moments lost here, becoming trapped here, but strangers lost.