My latest flash entry into the contest that I run. The word prompt was “hush” and the above picture.
Landen was the type of guy that didn’t need to be around people. Matter of fact, he hadn’t seen another mouth-breathing biped in thirteen months. Didn’t need to, didn’t care to.
Every morning, he woke up with a generous dose of whiskey in his coffee and a cigar — Nicaragua’s Fallen Angel — between his yellowed teeth.
And then he sat on his porch, rocking to the sunrise. It was a bit romantic for an old boy like Landen, but it pleased him mightily.
It was a preemptive strike against the Alzheimer’s disease. Better to sever the connections back then when he could rather than when he wasn’t able.
The hush was his morphine. No small talk, no car engines, no sirens, nothing.
No lost faces. Not out here.
Just him and the sound of the ice he kept in his coffee clinking, as he sipped.