From candle light in the dead of night, aglow for the flickering of mischievous flames working passionate over time, small wisp of smoke danced and floated in and out of reach. Escaping through tired loose lips and twirling slowly up towards the ceiling they truly looked like calm works of dark art. Just moments before they were trapped in shuddering lungs of a trembling man, burning, pleasing, calming, excruciating, but now they dance away beautifully without a care for the fire that they left running through the dark man's veins.
The burn pleased many, this the smoke knew. So they floated up with the confidence of a man on the verge of nothing aiming for something with a gun in his hand, a plan on his mind, and an alibi three miles wide. A true killer.
Ash was tapped away from the stick that started it all into a glass tray. The burning remains landed with the rest, glowing an angry red and yellow before calming and vanquishing it's own last breath. Thin, barely cooperating, tired lips took a hold of the end once more. A gently firm puff. A moment of stillness. Then the process started all over again, the only witnesses to this repetitive game being the flames on the candles surrounding the room for the man was too dazed to even begin to pay attention, hues of gleaming amber swirling with such heavy exhaustion that his whole body slumped over from the weight. Legs spread wide, shoulders hunched, one arm hanging out of the desk chair leaving just his shoulder and the awkward way he twisted his body to the side to keep him in a steady place with no real grip on anything. The other arm was different, always in the air, never truly at rest. Just to save that burning stick from harm.
On the wall, a clock ticked gently. Out the window, stars glowed soothingly. In the room, flames flickered mockingly. In the young man's mind, a voice rang through hauntingly.
But that truly is none of anyone's concern at this moment. Perhaps it never will be. Perhaps these times where crippling stress and dark thoughts that gripped this young Sicilian's chest will stay in this room, huddled into the corner of his mind until the time comes to do this ritual again, the one of drifting smoke and teasing flames stuck to a candle wick.
Honestly, I have no idea what I was doing with this. I just, you know, typed it up. Didn't even read through it again. Don't worry, once I get my mind focused I will. If you enjoyed that's great! Maybe you can tell me what you got from this gently guidance of a short tale my mind has decided to bestow upon you. If not, also great! Tell me what you do like, I will be curious.
Until next story babble, Riz.
