The Cynic and the Romantic

Violet and heavy was the sky. Beneath it, the wind came in short violent bursts and agitated the multitudes of unreformed pods of cotton that lined the field. Amidst them he moved fast and purposefully toward the tracks, leaving marks in the still moist earth as he did. In the unrefined music of the setting, the flutter of the overcoat in the man's wake filled the gaps in the sheet left out by the scarecrow's dancing rags. 


One of these days, I'll throw open the large windows of my fourth floor bedroom and remove the grills that restrict free access to the night breeze outside. Then I'll line up the ceiling with many hanging bulbs and light them all up with a smile. 


Enter frame right: squares of yellow, inviting light one after the other. The passenger train moved at an easy pace amidst the cotton fields. Its mild motion was at odds with the setting but its sound was in tandem with it. The man would have to hurry if he was to catch it. A used polythene bag breakdanced in front of the tracks as he broke out of the fields. With a final run and swing he clambered onto the steps and up into the coach. 


Once inside, he waited to catch his breath and checked his holster. He knew he would have to be quick. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door and walked into the aisle that ran between rows of passenger seats. His footsteps fast and heavy, he walked toward the opposite end. The man there became clearer as the assailant moved closer. He was a fitting image of him except for the red rose in the assailant's top left pocket. One smooth motion and a bang later, the assailant had achieved his motive. The mirror in front of him first cracked and then fell apart. The romantic had got the cynic. He then sat down in the warm glow of the coach and replaced his gun. With ill-suppressed joy and a stupid smile, he sat down to write. 


(once a while, one ought to have fun with their writing!)