(no subject)
Nunc est bibendum. The wolves are outside waiting, crowded before the door beneath the skull and crossbones flag that hangs so stiffly in the harsh winter winds.
"Can I get another one?" I asked the bar tender.
"Same thing?"
"Yeah," I said as he filled my mug with an old musty Finnish ale.
I pulled out a folded blank sheet of paper I had stashed away in my travel bag. I looked around. There were only two other men at the bar. One at the far right end and the other the far left end. They were both rugged and ugly- they looked like bandits from a nineteenth century romance novel. The bar tender was pouring a drink for the one right. I looked to the other.
"Excuse me," I uttered, clearing my throat. "Excuse me. Do you have a pen?"
He stared at me blankly for a second.
"I need a pen to write this- this letter- I need to write a letter."
"Nuh, sorry," he explained, "I aint got'un."
"Oh," I said disappointedly without him noticing.
"Hey Eddy," he cried out to the bar tender, "you gotta pen?"
The bar tender looked around under the bar for moment, found something, and tossed it to the bandit. He looked at me and held the pen up with a grin.
"Thank you," I said, taking it from him.
"You writin' a letter home?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's...an old promise."
My eyes became fixed on a bottle of gin. What was I supposed to write? 'Dear mother, well- everything's changed. That's why I haven't written you in such a long time.' No. There was nothing. Things had changed. Springs came, summers came, leaves, snow, and rain. And as so many seasons had passed by before I sat down to write a letter in that pub with the skull and crossbones flag, so many more passed by thereafter. The same blank sheet of paper and borrowed pen lay before me for several years until they became lost and all I saw was the bottle of gin, which had been replaced hundreds of times over but to me, was still the same bottle that was brooding over the other drinks on the shelf that first night.
Nunc est bibendum. The wolves are outside waiting, crowded before the door.
The skull and crosssbones pub hangs idly with a few houses scattered along a decaying street on the side of a vacant hill, overlooking the dismal southside of town. At the very bottom of the hill, there is a railroad track that runs parallel a stream that has in recent times all but dried up. If you follow the stream into the woods for a couple of miles, you come to a small pond filled with the sort of water that makes for a nasty brew in the hot summer sun, so gross is the content that is rotting at its floor. But I first discovered it in October when a bed of colorful leaves lined the water mosaically with patches that reached up and reflected only gray sky. And there, when I first stood in this uninhibited wood, where the sky spread across a narrow section of the earth and the leaves across it, I remembered the geese of my school days so many years ago.
"Can I get another one?" I asked the bar tender.
"Same thing?"
"Yeah," I said as he filled my mug with an old musty Finnish ale.
I pulled out a folded blank sheet of paper I had stashed away in my travel bag. I looked around. There were only two other men at the bar. One at the far right end and the other the far left end. They were both rugged and ugly- they looked like bandits from a nineteenth century romance novel. The bar tender was pouring a drink for the one right. I looked to the other.
"Excuse me," I uttered, clearing my throat. "Excuse me. Do you have a pen?"
He stared at me blankly for a second.
"I need a pen to write this- this letter- I need to write a letter."
"Nuh, sorry," he explained, "I aint got'un."
"Oh," I said disappointedly without him noticing.
"Hey Eddy," he cried out to the bar tender, "you gotta pen?"
The bar tender looked around under the bar for moment, found something, and tossed it to the bandit. He looked at me and held the pen up with a grin.
"Thank you," I said, taking it from him.
"You writin' a letter home?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's...an old promise."
My eyes became fixed on a bottle of gin. What was I supposed to write? 'Dear mother, well- everything's changed. That's why I haven't written you in such a long time.' No. There was nothing. Things had changed. Springs came, summers came, leaves, snow, and rain. And as so many seasons had passed by before I sat down to write a letter in that pub with the skull and crossbones flag, so many more passed by thereafter. The same blank sheet of paper and borrowed pen lay before me for several years until they became lost and all I saw was the bottle of gin, which had been replaced hundreds of times over but to me, was still the same bottle that was brooding over the other drinks on the shelf that first night.
Nunc est bibendum. The wolves are outside waiting, crowded before the door.
The skull and crosssbones pub hangs idly with a few houses scattered along a decaying street on the side of a vacant hill, overlooking the dismal southside of town. At the very bottom of the hill, there is a railroad track that runs parallel a stream that has in recent times all but dried up. If you follow the stream into the woods for a couple of miles, you come to a small pond filled with the sort of water that makes for a nasty brew in the hot summer sun, so gross is the content that is rotting at its floor. But I first discovered it in October when a bed of colorful leaves lined the water mosaically with patches that reached up and reflected only gray sky. And there, when I first stood in this uninhibited wood, where the sky spread across a narrow section of the earth and the leaves across it, I remembered the geese of my school days so many years ago.