All_My_Friends_Are_Dead_Trueblue_Magazine_3 Creative

All My Friends Were Dead

A Bit Of Poetry To Start Your Day?

As we watched the rain through the windows of the old black truck, driving the rocky gravel lanes, passing the bottle – stolen – and swiping drags from the snuffed out butt’s in the tray, we often spoke no words to one another.

Old country: Cash, Jennings, Nelson, cried from the rusty speakers of the old Chevy and neither dared change the station. We never really liked the sound of the music, but we both understood what them old boys was preaching’. A twisting cloud of death would eventually destroy an old corn bin and toss tractors, trailers, children into neighboring counties. But for some reason, we still drove to our spot of silence.

The old lot, surrounded by Elm and Oak, was gated off by the slow mumbling of the Aux Able Creek. This was where the dead of our community rested for years, decades, centuries. And it was our spot of comfort. We’d sit under the storm, with the dead, trying to depict the short stories engraved in the cement slabs at their heads and pretend we actually knew how it all really went down. They’d stack like empty wooden crates on the docks, the hours would, as the two of us talked with the dead, but never to each other, sharing the bottle while trying to find the way to avoid ending up in a spot like the one we sat. With lightning crashing into the tree’s and thunder echoing screams between… John C. Jones – Christopher R. Kelly – Suzanne L. Bolze … we were soothed.

The old black cat, with only one eye – the left – would scamper out from behind the tomb house holding more of the dead just to see where the voices were coming from.

Headlights from Interstate 80 and Route 6 found their way in from time to time, bending around fence posts and through tree branches. Nobody ever found us out there. They never will. We did this every time it stormed. So we could be alone with our minds, the forgotten dreams of the dead and the lost memories of love, to cleanse ourselves and more importantly, to leave it all behind with the dead we called friends. Where it belonged.

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