Short Story: Three Days Gone

Short Story: Three Days Gone

by Michael Engelby

How I came to this place, and all those before it for that matter, remains an indecipherable shadow of a comprehension mired in a confusing myriad of illusions, but I assure you, this thought isn’t going to be another one of those mental trips which unequivocally fails to create calm for the disrupted, although I must admit to feeling a bit of a lateral progression—generously provided by intoxication—which seems to have lightened a certain sincerity for unemotional appreciation and it appears that the advantages are serving themselves honestly because that distinct disdain for pity, eternal restlessness, self-insinuated sorrow, and ceaseless guilt all seem to have transcended in and upon, above and beyond themselves, fading into the dusty blue hue tinted so because of the way the sun shines off of the reflection of the face in the mirror.

“It was all washed away in the last rain. Scared off. Swirling black clouds, the lightening skies, the rage of the thunder, all that water and the demons. You were there! You saw them! Remember how their voices blew down the old elm tree across the street? Three hundred years. Fell to the ground and thrashed itself into a million pieces. All dead and rotten inside. Left running through the flooding gutters with nothing but a piece of driftwood for a soul. Coming back again. They’re coming back again!” His hands, it was the way they shook as he reached out towards God...and his eyes. The devil was eating his mind. It wasn’t the thunder that he was screaming at it was mercy. You could see the intensity, the purity of fear in his eyes when the lightening flashed."

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