Powder Burn Flash # 170 - Chris Deal
By Chris Deal
"It’s just business, baby," he said, his voice smooth like the silk cigar smoke that rolled off his tongue and drifted in and out of scene on the wind, like spider web filaments that rode the current, like the spilt blood on the hallowed ground he walked that refused to congeal until after he had left sight. He was a bag of bones wrapped in a leather hide and standing tall over gravestones and bodies. He weaved through the rain drops, the gray sky mixing with the dirt, the cemetery landscape archetypical, neo-gothic and fitting. He smiled, pepper stubble lining perfect, pebble teeth, a sneer to the untrained eye. He winked and tossed the dying butt into the prone form's face, not getting the reaction he wanted, the fun of the scene already burning out. His friend lay cold in the wind and rain, his eyes not blinking as they shoved him into the already occupied pit, not blinking as the mud was shoveled over him, not blinking as his perfect hair mixed in with the red clay and the bullet hole was filled in as his new home was. In the fervor of the scene and the aftermath of dawn, nothing could be seen of the action. As the sun passed over the threshold of night to day, the lean frame of the priest strode the setting. When he came to the plot that held the twins in their womb of earth, he snorted and sneered and spat to his friend, "Just business, baby. Just business."
BIO: Chris Deal writes from Huntersville, NC. He is the fiction editor for Red Fez.