Baseball bat

Baseball bat.

There is a red moon coming. The dogs are hiding behind their fences, quiet in the dark. They know better. They hear it. And I hear it too. It’s the sound of the birds breathing in their sleep. The sound of people in their beds, in their restlessness. It’s the sound of the worry in their hearts. They are lost and it twists their minds. They don’t know what’s killing them. They expect they’ll see the new day. They hope that there’ll be some reward. There will be, but not what they imagined. It’ll come hard and from beneath. They are in it up to their chins. What they thought was theirs, never was. So the dogs and I, we lay quiet. The fleas in the cool and soft dirt, they bite and burrow into the flesh. But the dogs and I remain still, no matter, as the night gets darker. And the stars further and further out. I shut my eyes, and shut them tight. As it is always there. The red moon on its way.

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About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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