The last gasoline lamp is dimmed for the night. A shadow is dancing in the kitchen, given life by the flickering candle. Wayne walked coolly towards the swing door, past some cigarette stubs and blotches of dried ale and spilled beer. Dull thuds are heard from the kitchen, washed mugs placed atop some wooden surface.
He sat below the swing door just behind a worn rocking chair. He scribbled on the dust covered wooden panel. Still quiet like he has always been, save for some occasional utterance. The moonlight showers him and casts a long shadow behind him. The air is still and dry, typical of the West. It's only going to get colder as the night progresses.
Sometimes he'd just lay there and fell asleep. On other nights, he'd stare intently into the distance - a dark void in the dead of the night. He has better vision than most inhabitants of the small town. Sometimes, he moonlights as an astronomer under the moonlight but he couldn't make out the shapes in the dark expanse above.
Many hours ago, the place was alive with gleeful chatters from the customers and occasional roars from boisterous miners. He'd find comfort amidst the hubbub. When the last light is snuffed out, then loneliness creeps in. It's almost a routine.
Yet, faithful Wayne continues waiting. Expecting. Hoping. Patiently. No one asks why. No one bothers to. Some sensitive souls would stop, observe and tried to make out his mind. Then they'd go on with their business. Tonight, like any other nights, Wayne sat there. Scanning around and observing the wood grains on the swing door and then shifts his attention towards the dark horizon in front. Soon, it'll explode into a vivid orange fireball but for now he'd just relish his quiet moments alone.
Around his neck is a pendant inscribed with: John. And beneath it: the observer. He licks his paws and swings his tail. And he waits.
He sat below the swing door just behind a worn rocking chair. He scribbled on the dust covered wooden panel. Still quiet like he has always been, save for some occasional utterance. The moonlight showers him and casts a long shadow behind him. The air is still and dry, typical of the West. It's only going to get colder as the night progresses.
Sometimes he'd just lay there and fell asleep. On other nights, he'd stare intently into the distance - a dark void in the dead of the night. He has better vision than most inhabitants of the small town. Sometimes, he moonlights as an astronomer under the moonlight but he couldn't make out the shapes in the dark expanse above.
Many hours ago, the place was alive with gleeful chatters from the customers and occasional roars from boisterous miners. He'd find comfort amidst the hubbub. When the last light is snuffed out, then loneliness creeps in. It's almost a routine.
Yet, faithful Wayne continues waiting. Expecting. Hoping. Patiently. No one asks why. No one bothers to. Some sensitive souls would stop, observe and tried to make out his mind. Then they'd go on with their business. Tonight, like any other nights, Wayne sat there. Scanning around and observing the wood grains on the swing door and then shifts his attention towards the dark horizon in front. Soon, it'll explode into a vivid orange fireball but for now he'd just relish his quiet moments alone.
Around his neck is a pendant inscribed with: John. And beneath it: the observer. He licks his paws and swings his tail. And he waits.
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Fire away! I'd like to know what's on your mind.