W.F. Rastell
Stories (5/0)
The Final Choice of Martin Marble
An uncomfortable silence expands inside of a wooden room, occupied by friends and family members of the late Jane and Roger Ellis. On top of a platform ridden with sawdust and termites is Martin Marble, a fifty-six year scruffy old man who dons an ugly blue coverall, accented by his white tee-shirt stained with tears and fading spots of soiled mud. His hair, tousled and withering in color, looks as every little bit depressed as Martin’s green eyes, welling up in the tears of remorse and regret. Martin’s hands are tied behind his back by harsh rope burning his wrists and scathing his soul, and the itch-inducing rope surrounds his neck loosely, ready to strangle, snap, and transform Martin into a cadaver within moments.
By W.F. Rastell2 years ago in Fiction
Noise
Upstairs, there is this clusterfuck of noise, the strange laughing of white joys, sounding in the syncopated rhythm of poor excitement and no hellos. Music from my past plays, its pulse familiar but now an ever distant melody of an old alternate universe, a reference point in my time tube that has passed and a place that this player is precarious to return to.
By W.F. Rastell6 years ago in Poets