Last Entry
Flushing Waters
Chapter 2 “Sunset”
Fully satisfied from good food and conversation, Charles Winston verily made his way home with the Sheriff. But he did not go over the bridge-he never did so in the evenings. Instead, he and Sheriff continued down the road toward the hills. The path he took departed from the road and twisted and turned alongside the river. Charles whistled happily as he went. His melodies were off-key and disjointed-a medley randomly constructed by his exceptionally short span of attention. Charles kept his eyes on the path ahead of him, although Sheriff excitedly rambled back and forth across the trail-tracking this fox and that squirrel for a time before quickly moving on to a new fascination. The pair crossed the river by way of a rather large, conveniently fallen log, and, at length, came full circle to their comfortable cabin in the woods.
Sheriff devoured his dinner very nearly before Charles finished serving it, and subsequently leapt upon Charles’ mattress and fell asleep. Charles affectionately stroked the length of his massive back and scratched behind his ears. Smiling, Charles left the cabin once more-as though he were making for town.
Charles stepped out onto the bridge, the river flowing beneath him. He watched as it carried a reddened leaf his way. Fall overtook summer, and the leaf disappeared under the bridge and continued downstream. Illuminated in a halo of rust and gold under the setting sun, the hills of Flushing Waters stood majestically before him. The image was reflected and distorted by the moving water. Rays of light shimmered through every pine tree, on the smallest pebble, and gleamed in the mayor’s hair-and for a moment, nothing in nature escaped the touch of gold. More upright, Charles now stood-facing the hills with the river flowing through him. In his left hand, he held a bottle of whiskey, and in his right, a revolver. Charles took a mouthful of whiskey, faced the revolver, and the river took him away from the hills.
Chapter 2 “Sunset”
Fully satisfied from good food and conversation, Charles Winston verily made his way home with the Sheriff. But he did not go over the bridge-he never did so in the evenings. Instead, he and Sheriff continued down the road toward the hills. The path he took departed from the road and twisted and turned alongside the river. Charles whistled happily as he went. His melodies were off-key and disjointed-a medley randomly constructed by his exceptionally short span of attention. Charles kept his eyes on the path ahead of him, although Sheriff excitedly rambled back and forth across the trail-tracking this fox and that squirrel for a time before quickly moving on to a new fascination. The pair crossed the river by way of a rather large, conveniently fallen log, and, at length, came full circle to their comfortable cabin in the woods.
Sheriff devoured his dinner very nearly before Charles finished serving it, and subsequently leapt upon Charles’ mattress and fell asleep. Charles affectionately stroked the length of his massive back and scratched behind his ears. Smiling, Charles left the cabin once more-as though he were making for town.
Charles stepped out onto the bridge, the river flowing beneath him. He watched as it carried a reddened leaf his way. Fall overtook summer, and the leaf disappeared under the bridge and continued downstream. Illuminated in a halo of rust and gold under the setting sun, the hills of Flushing Waters stood majestically before him. The image was reflected and distorted by the moving water. Rays of light shimmered through every pine tree, on the smallest pebble, and gleamed in the mayor’s hair-and for a moment, nothing in nature escaped the touch of gold. More upright, Charles now stood-facing the hills with the river flowing through him. In his left hand, he held a bottle of whiskey, and in his right, a revolver. Charles took a mouthful of whiskey, faced the revolver, and the river took him away from the hills.