Taking my time. Choosing my line. Trying to decide what to do.
The shotgun bucked against his shoulder and the picture frame exploded into splinters of wood and shards of glass that rained down into the water below.
Looks like my stop. Don?t wanna get off. Got myself hung up on you.
One hand dropped to retrieve the bottle that was perched on the wooden rail for a long drink while green eyes looked over the other pictures scattered over the table they would sit at to watch amazing sunsets. The Southern Comfort was placed back onto the railing and he picked up a candid. Something someone snapped at one of the functions they always tried to attend. Beltane, Winter Fest, Fashion Week. One of many, and that picture was flung high, out over the river as he brought the gun to shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
Seems to me, you don?t want to talk about it. Seems to me, you just turn your pretty head and walk away?
?Four years!? He shouted to the sky. ?Almost four years of nothing but loyalty, laughs and what I thought was love.? Another picture exploded over the water. ?Thou dost not control me, Luke,? he spat the words she said as she gathered a few of her things and launched another of their photos outward only to hear the shotgun click empty and watch as that one got away to a watery grave in one piece.
Places I?ve known. Things that I?m growin?, don?t taste the same without you. I got myself in the worst mess I?ve been. And, I?ve found myself startin? to doubt you.
He lifted the bottle again and drained the last of the brown liquor, and looked over the last few pictures on the table. Each one held a memory, and each one ignited more explosive, drunken anger and pain. Even drunk and angry, the fog cleared as he snatched a shell and dropped it into the chamber, and instantly slammed the pump forward. On instinct, his support hand grasped and palmed four cases to hold and under the loading port and rapid fire shoved them as if he was spring loaded. He looked like a machine, four shells loaded in under two seconds. Muscle memory was a beautiful thing.
Seems to me, talk all night, here comes the mornin?. Seems to me, you just forget what we said and greet the day. Seems to me, you don?t wanna talk about it. Seems to me, you just turn your pretty head and walk away?
?Shootah ready,? He said. The shotgun was tucked neatly into the ready position and then the remaining five pictures were tossed. The gun came up and belched fire and lead, obliterating the remains of photographic memories. ?Ya still got it, Boudreaux.?
The empty bottle, discarded spent plastic cases of shells, and the box the pictures had been in were all left on the table. The shotgun was taken into the house to be cleaned and ready to use again.
He looked around the now bare walls as he placed the gun on the stainless countertop. Colors that she had helped choose now seemed to stand out even more. One fist shot out and connected with sheetrock, and pushed through to the other side of the wall.
I?ve got to cool myself down, stompin? around. Thinkin? some words I can?t name ya. Meet ya half way, got nothin? to say. Still, I don?t suppose I can blame ya.
The other fist shot out for the same reaction. Hole after hole appeared in the walls, some bigger than the others.
Seems to me, you don?t wanna talk about it. Seems to me, you just turn your pretty head and walk away.
The liquor cabinet was opened with blood soaked hands. Rivulets fell to the floor as he stared over the bottles. Elven wine was added to the mental list for the next round of target practice and black powder therapy. The bottle of bourbon was half full, but enough to do the job. The cap twisted off and tossed into the floor as he walked to the table. One single tear smeared with blood as he wiped it away before going to work on getting that gun cleaned.
Lyrics from James Gang, Walk Away.
The shotgun bucked against his shoulder and the picture frame exploded into splinters of wood and shards of glass that rained down into the water below.
Looks like my stop. Don?t wanna get off. Got myself hung up on you.
One hand dropped to retrieve the bottle that was perched on the wooden rail for a long drink while green eyes looked over the other pictures scattered over the table they would sit at to watch amazing sunsets. The Southern Comfort was placed back onto the railing and he picked up a candid. Something someone snapped at one of the functions they always tried to attend. Beltane, Winter Fest, Fashion Week. One of many, and that picture was flung high, out over the river as he brought the gun to shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
Seems to me, you don?t want to talk about it. Seems to me, you just turn your pretty head and walk away?
?Four years!? He shouted to the sky. ?Almost four years of nothing but loyalty, laughs and what I thought was love.? Another picture exploded over the water. ?Thou dost not control me, Luke,? he spat the words she said as she gathered a few of her things and launched another of their photos outward only to hear the shotgun click empty and watch as that one got away to a watery grave in one piece.
Places I?ve known. Things that I?m growin?, don?t taste the same without you. I got myself in the worst mess I?ve been. And, I?ve found myself startin? to doubt you.
He lifted the bottle again and drained the last of the brown liquor, and looked over the last few pictures on the table. Each one held a memory, and each one ignited more explosive, drunken anger and pain. Even drunk and angry, the fog cleared as he snatched a shell and dropped it into the chamber, and instantly slammed the pump forward. On instinct, his support hand grasped and palmed four cases to hold and under the loading port and rapid fire shoved them as if he was spring loaded. He looked like a machine, four shells loaded in under two seconds. Muscle memory was a beautiful thing.
Seems to me, talk all night, here comes the mornin?. Seems to me, you just forget what we said and greet the day. Seems to me, you don?t wanna talk about it. Seems to me, you just turn your pretty head and walk away?
?Shootah ready,? He said. The shotgun was tucked neatly into the ready position and then the remaining five pictures were tossed. The gun came up and belched fire and lead, obliterating the remains of photographic memories. ?Ya still got it, Boudreaux.?
The empty bottle, discarded spent plastic cases of shells, and the box the pictures had been in were all left on the table. The shotgun was taken into the house to be cleaned and ready to use again.
He looked around the now bare walls as he placed the gun on the stainless countertop. Colors that she had helped choose now seemed to stand out even more. One fist shot out and connected with sheetrock, and pushed through to the other side of the wall.
I?ve got to cool myself down, stompin? around. Thinkin? some words I can?t name ya. Meet ya half way, got nothin? to say. Still, I don?t suppose I can blame ya.
The other fist shot out for the same reaction. Hole after hole appeared in the walls, some bigger than the others.
Seems to me, you don?t wanna talk about it. Seems to me, you just turn your pretty head and walk away.
The liquor cabinet was opened with blood soaked hands. Rivulets fell to the floor as he stared over the bottles. Elven wine was added to the mental list for the next round of target practice and black powder therapy. The bottle of bourbon was half full, but enough to do the job. The cap twisted off and tossed into the floor as he walked to the table. One single tear smeared with blood as he wiped it away before going to work on getting that gun cleaned.
Lyrics from James Gang, Walk Away.