Final Thoughts of Jeremiah Jones

Final Thoughts of Jeremiah Jones
by Robert C Parrish


The dribble comes from the recesses of my mind. An unwanted fly in the ointment. Disjointed thoughts flow from my fingers to the keyboard like garbage into a dump. Why must we use words to convey our feelings? A simple hug or handshake or kiss should suffice.

Weight like a boulder sits on my back as I type. Will this be good enough to win a contest? Should I just give up?

No! At some point the law of averages assures me of my success, no matter how menial or insignificant. A pat on the back, a bolster to my ego.

The steam from my coffee slowly dances to the ceiling in a bizarre ballerina dance. I can see the tiny legs kicking and the tutu twirling gracefully - but it isn’t real. Just another illusion incorrectly interpreted by my slowly decaying imagination.

Maybe I should end it all. The cold steel of the gun feels natural in my lap. All I have to do is lift it to my mouth and this macabre life will end in a loud bang and quick flash. Bury me in a trunk and let the worms have me. But what of my family and friends? How will they feel? Did I just ask a question that I may never hear the answer to?

I think it is time to make this all go away. But why am I writing this all down, these final thoughts? I never made a memoir, never a dairy, nary a scrap about myself to leave behind. Memories will persist but will slowly erode as time goes on and I will be forgotten.

Typing now with one hand because the other is occupied by my metallic savior. I am nervous but this must be done.

Raising the gun I pull

#300 Words