Lightly Bleeding

The killer methodically came down the stairs (which were just planks of smoothed oak resting atop unevenly cut, white planks on an incline), wheeled towards the locked bedroom door, aimed at what he hoped was a quietly resting landlord, and pulled the trigger.

Mmmm...visual escapades with my lovely lady. We found each other Teresa ... ah sweet restful fields and our bodies wedged into the earth. The sun's lapidary rays strike us and keep us calm despite the nervous anxiety of sexual anticipation. Freeze-framed in the ground there looking at the blue sky between our eyelashes. I kept talking to you about insane things, topics of discussion that I'd never actually bring up. About everything and it was lucid and lyrical and you liked it, and then told me about yourself and I listened. The conversation tasted perfect, like my favorite food. When our eyes teared up because of all the sun, we drank it down and it quenched every desire temporarily. I didn't look around at all because you were right next to me. Laying next to me wedged into the ground, our gazes locked on each other.

You looked past me into the distance and told me a weird creature was coming towards us. I marveled at how airy and beautiful my limbs felt, at how the little ducts from my mouth to my throat carried some divine fluid that removed all pressure from everywhere, as if I were awake but sleeping but awake but sleeping but awake. Your eyes looked at me knowingly, but I misunderstood them, I suppose. I heard the creatures footsteps getting closer.

All of a sudden I looked so deeply into your eyes. I fell so far into them Teresa how did you let me fall so far ... the Hundred Hand Slap with Mt. Fuji delicately fanned behind us! Ah leave me no how did you leave me how did you not hear me here how did you leave me did you hear my Tiarhtian shriek of anguish? Everything rotated slightly after the footsteps stopped and there I was in a dark room. I trusted you Teresa, I suppose I deserved this.

The bullet ripped through the flimsy door and as light poured into the small bedroom blood poured out of the back of the sleeping landlord's head.

Correction: As it turns out the killer didn't have a killer instinct - I completely misread that one. This entire post is borne from an excessive procrastinatory paranoia that trickled down my bloodline through the olive presses and sewer caps and dusty meadows overlooking the Mediterranean and in the distance...Carthage.