Hi all,
It has been some time since I had last posted something here. Real Life took over for a while, and my heart just wasn't in the writing. This is an attempt to rediscovering the literary flame and I leave it at your cwitticism. :laugh4:
Please criticise, comment. I would appreciate some clues as far as style, language, etc.
Damn them all to hell. I had had enough. The opportunity had presented itself now, finally, with the sound of the guitar resounding in my imagination, there, where the fires were lit, and where I could hear the horses. The small town was silent. I was expecting the bell to ring the second hour of the morning. Any minute now.
It was getting cold. I imagined the warmth of the fires once again. And heard the guitars. I remembered how the previous morning a young woman was dancing and singing in the square, before the wine merchant’s shop. Something like la,la,la,lalala, la,la,la,la…. And she was beautiful too. I couldn’t avoid swallowing as I remembered the dark skin on the neck, and open back, the lean, agile body under the dress and the long legs. She seemed so independent, but at the same time so feminine, so fragile.
One of the fires seemed to almost extinguish, and then some dark silhouette crossed swiftly and the fire leapt up again. In the moment of light, I saw a shape of a man with a guitar. I could not hear it.
I though about why were they so free, while I was so miserable. Maybe it was the work. I did not mind working though. It was the mindlessness, the pointlessness of it all: a work that kept me alive to work so that it’d keep me alive for another day so I could work more. And for what? No family to feed, no care for King or country – I served my time under the musket already and I wasn’t going back. I had chose this backwater town because I needed quiet, peace and because, if I remember correctly, my dad always told me this is where I should live when I grow up. This is the best land in the province. Here. So here I am. And I care about the blackness of the land even less than I do about the country in general. That is why I sit here, watch the fires, and smoke.
How would their lives change if I left? The wine merchant would notice next Thursday – that is when I always buy some liquor, after a market day. The only other person who could notice was the woman who made baskets in the square. She lives two houses down the street. She is a widow, but I think she liked me more than she should as a neighbour. It is a pity I didn’t return the feeling.
How much can a man say for himself if there are only two people in the town where he lived for five years that would even notice if he left? Not much. So Damn them all. The fires of the Rom are welcoming. They are warm. They have the music.
I got up from the step, put my knife in my boot, the old carbine on my shoulder, put on my old leather hat, and stopped for a moment looking at the house. Damn them all. I lit up the torch from the oil lamp and threw it into the house. Then I turned around and left through the stables, kicking the doors open and leaving them so, as I went towards the campfires. A few hundred steps later I turned around. The flames had engulfed the house and I could hear the cattle as they roamed free. I turned around. I could see more fires now. And the sound of guitar was clearer.
