Off the cuff writing

Writing in here is narrative play with the English language in novelette verse.

Shoes pressed sopping against the muddled and sloppily kept earth.
Pants draped upon them in firm casual purse.
Rain struck the distance in desaturated and agitated pulse.
In the distance rested the sliced impression of Town Hall.

A man nearby ra for cover from the coming storm.
He glanced at the man standing firmly treed into the middle of the intersection of Hope WY and Far VW.
He disappeared with disregard to curiosity.

Shutters flapped lightly against the rotting wood of Town Hall.
The chains of the crooked sign would have you see through them, the firmly treed figure in the distance.
Time froze, only for a moment.

For a moment, vague light, then gone.
For a moment, violins whispered forever.

Spurs chattered anxiously.
The old Town House doors shattered into splinters from flames pouring steel in streams of Colt furry.
The pressed sopping shoes treed at the intersection of Hope WY and Far VW uprooted in an unnatural flick.
Click, slap, swoosh, crick-click.


The shoe’s owner, their master, guided his wrath in steel with as great an aptitude as that which he commanded the residents of his shoes.
Three heads whipped in recoil nearly in unison; sprouting wet, arched, rosewood splatters from their crowns.

They landed upon the porch of the Town Hall like an ellipses following an exclaim…the bodies of the heads of the men that tried to shoot the man that was no longer rooted in the middle of the intersection of Hope WY and Far VW.

His shoulders caressed the wood of the church from the compulsion to breath.
He pressed deeper upon the church, chancing a glance down Far VW; then hung his gaze down the road of Hope WY where the Town Hall horizoned, stopping the road in a dead end.

Welcoming the view as introduction to it’s holdings, the Town Hall was now decorated in destruction and death three times the score of one life worth saving.
Breath covered the view through the cold rain; he recalled breathing again.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.


“Ah fuck it”, he forced in motion.

Shoes splattered their own recoil as they forced the course to the end of Hope WY.
Without prelude, yet within notice, a figure leapt from the belly of the Halls of the Town.

Anger and rage pushed through the teeth of vengeance against the man that once was rooted in the middle of the intersection of Hope WY and Far VW; the threat to the security of the order of the town, it was maddeningly offensive in every burning muscle of the man of the Town Hall.

Fingers commanded arms that pressured the thrust of his wrath from the ends of his Remington of justice.
An endless array of verbose rage racketed through the air towards the man running down Hope.

The man to destruct Town Hall, the man running down Hope twisted in dance with the reaction of light.
He shifted in poise, then slid to a dash and fired a rebuttal towards the man that was now the messenger for the anger and rage of the town.

The man to destroy acclaimed less in his volley, but the points of the steel struck more wounds in the legs of the messenger of anger than was delivered unto himself.

The man of anger lost his footing, and with it his gain on the man running down Hope.
Upon him quickly was his foe, but without further battery.
The yield was brief and changed to blunt force of impact instead of thrusted piercing stabs.

The man of anger lay under the man of destruction at the end of Hope living what little was left before numbingly flipping to his death in response from the beating of his destroyer.

His destroyer sat upon him, lingering in breath after his death; the man of anger; the man from the belly of the Halls of the Town.

The man that destroyed him drifted in hollow meditation back towards Far View.
Beyond Hope, where it met with Far View, where he had come from; there stood not one person.
Around him at the end of Hope WY, where he had met the man for the anger of the Town, where he had versed against the three men worth a life worth saving each; every last one was dead.
The Town Hall was now empty, hollow, vacated, liberated, yet voided by consequence.

A raven flew overhead, saw this, and continued onward to it’s lifelong spouse.
What men who destroy do to men of anger on the street of Hope off of Far View are questions left for men of anger, but not for ravens.