Darryl The Final Third

A fingernail clipping of the prodigal moon wasted its grandeur as Darryl approached his focal point of eternity.

Armed with a pepper shaker, posing as a portable grave in one fist, and a pencil sketch he had just drawn of himself from a reflection in the mirror in the other, he was no match for Heartbreak and Pain who relentlessly whacked and thwacked at his vestige of being, as he tried to hold on until the bell ending the third round sounded.

The path diverged. The starboard branch led into a wooded area. Drawn by the attraction of the faint, elongated shadow of a large cypress there – perhaps to be used as an unbiased referee, or even lonely company – Darryl veered.

The Conductor cued the wind and the sylvan orchestra began intertwining its integral parts into a dirge of lament reserved for the death of entire galaxies.

Perhaps the dirge signified the imminence of the tocsin’s clapper. Perhaps it was a third competitor that Darryl couldn’t handle. Perhaps the Conductor took over the reins. In any event, Darryl’s knees collapsed to the leaf-strewn canvas and the count began. The twisted shadow of the tree offered no hope. “One – Two – Three”.

Denise wanted out of the pepper shaker. Emboldened by his demise, she would fight for her freedom. The pepper shaker twitched.

The support given by his knees proved insufficient. The pepper shaker warmed. “Four – Five”. Both of his fists softened in anticipation of a fall. The shaker became hot. Hands opened, searching for the ground. The shaker, as if propelled along a self-conceived trajectory, split open on a stone. Its contents, and the sketch, taking to the air together in a grand arpeggio of the orchestra’s flourish.

Dr. M popped out from behind a birch. “So, how goes it, Darryl?”

Darryl winced. “Six”.

Gravity won and Darryl’s stomach flattened to the contour of the earth. With his head turned, he looked laterally and saw the final snapshot. Floating particles over a shred of paper.

To Darryl, his metaphor was found. Her weakness and helplessness, now in the form of dust, buoyed by his strength and power, appearing as a penciled personification.

Denise’s particles swirled determinedly above the crude, worthless depiction.

Her metaphor from the same snapshot would have been diametrical. It would speak of freedom. Escape – from the pepper-shaker-laden bondage, and the pain resulting from sarcasm and lack of honor. Moreover, free from future grief and the rhetorical incisions which had cut her deeply and often.

The truth of the matter was concealed because of the lack of density of her particles; her physical illiteracy, and Darryl’s mental one. The mere act of distancing from Darryl was the cause of her growing warmth and intensity.

The breeze carried Denise upward. She began to regain her strength, charm and life. The Conductor summoned a beautiful heavenly strain of which she availed herself.

The crude paper likeness of Darryl floundered, and as if guided by some ultimate expository wisdom, slid, face-down, under the overhang of a rock.

With his last heartbeats approaching, Darryl pondered his fleeting airborne gift, now heading out on her chosen leg of her flight plan. His perennial desire for their perpetual union evaporating in unison with her departure. Darryl supplanted that concern with another one, a question. “Had she ever considered how she had left his heart?”

The departing of the fragmentized embers and the depth of the dirge brought heaviness to Darryl’s eyes. They closed for the last time with no fanfare or farewell.

“Seven – Eight” came, but were never heard. No one was saved by the bell.

Denise had thought about his heart.

She wanted to leave it with just one thing – her footprint.

Published by Kumi

Liaison to the Infinite.

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