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Fred Ollinger

Sunday, 21 February 2010 20:28

Born in Erie, PA during the best decade of music ever: the 70's. He tried to be a doctor in an East Coast Big City, but he realized that he was destined to be a novelist and sometime West Coast surfer. Like many writers who can't stick with one thing and can't hold down a day job, he assumes other identities as well including: Novelist, Ex-technician, Unix hobbiest, Bicyclist (touring and commuting, NOT racing), Wanna be surfer, Wanna be comedian, Meditator and wanna be Buddhist, and unemployable despite an active RN license. He writes about anything that catches his interest.

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Incarnadine Stars

 
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We want you to enjoy the stories, but they may not be reproduced, or otherwise used, without express
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Magenta moon and... - Editor


 




Incarnadine Stars



by Chris Deal

“When's the sun come up?” he asked from the other end of the bench, his voice quiet, not his
usual boisterousness. He was shrinking into himself as the night drifted.
“Not for another hour.”  I looked up, past the lamp's halo, past the city’s lights, into the
pale gray of the birthing day.
“Shit.” He spat the cigarette butt away, onto the walkway.

“Think you'll make it?” I light a another smoke and hand it to him, his hand shaking, weak, then
I do another for myself.
“Nah. Wish I would, but don't believe it to be.”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and there's a smudge on the black leather of my left shoe. With a
clean handkerchief I wipe away the dull incarnadine.  It came from him.
“Stars sure are clear,” he said.

“Yeah.  I figure that’s 'cause it's so cold.”

“How's that?” He coughs, and it is the sound of a blade cutting through wheat.

“I think it's the cold, it keeps the molecules in the atmosphere from vibrating, making the stars
appear clear.”
He grunted, or made a sound that could be construed as a grunt.

“But I ain't a scientist or nothing, so I don't know.  Could be we’re closer to them in orbit
or whatever.  I don’t know.”
He didn't say anything, and neither did I, for several minutes, we just sat there, looking up at the
sky, and it was getting to be a brighter shade of gray, the same color of the ash that was growing
on his cigarette, between his fingers, unmoving on the armrest, the cherry dying, fading.
“Sorry it went down like this,” I said.

I stood and walked toward the car, stopping only to pick up the lone casing, then away, towards
where the sun will soon be.
©2009


 
 
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<pre>A New Story from Short-Story.Me!

Incarnadine Stars
LEGAL NOTE: All Short Stories and other material on our site or that we distribute are Copyrighted.
We want you to enjoy the stories, but they may not be reproduced, or otherwise used, without express
written permission.

_Magenta moon and... - Editor_

INCARNADINE STARS

by Chris Deal

“When's the sun come up?” he asked from the other end of the bench, his voice quiet,
not his usual boisterousness. He was shrinking into himself as the night drifted.

“Not for another hour.”  I looked up, past the lamp's halo, past the city’s
lights, into the pale gray of the birthing day.

“Shit.” He spat the cigarette butt away, onto the walkway.

“Think you'll make it?” I light a another smoke and hand it to him, his hand shaking,
weak, then I do another for myself.

“Nah. Wish I would, but don't believe it to be.”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and there's a smudge on the black leather of my left
shoe. With a clean handkerchief I wipe away the dull incarnadine.  It came from him.

“Stars sure are clear,” he said.

“Yeah.  I figure that’s 'cause it's so cold.”

“How's that?” He coughs, and it is the sound of a blade cutting through wheat.

“I think it's the cold, it keeps the molecules in the atmosphere from vibrating, making
the stars appear clear.”

He grunted, or made a sound that could be construed as a grunt.

“But I ain't a scientist or nothing, so I don't know.  Could be we’re closer to them
in orbit or whatever.  I don’t know.”

He didn't say anything, and neither did I, for several minutes, we just sat there,
looking up at the sky, and it was getting to be a brighter shade of gray, the same color
of the ash that was growing on his cigarette, between his fingers, unmoving on the
armrest, the cherry dying, fading.

“Sorry it went down like this,” I said.

I stood and walked toward the car, stopping only to pick up the lone casing, then away,
towards where the sun will soon be.

Click here to end Your Subscription, if you must
http://www.short-story.me/component/vemod_news_mailer/?unsubscribeall=1&userid=userid9999987

This is system-generated short story distribution; please do not respond

Our "Best of" ANTHOLOGY NOW AVAILABLE!:
--To buy the electronic version for the Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003F777ZQ
--To buy the print version in our E-store: https://www.createspace.com/3445134
--To buy the print version in the Amazon Bookstore:
http://www.amazon.com/Short-Story-Me-Genre-Short-Stories-Anthology/dp/1451593201/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1271975184&sr=1-1
</pre>

<pre>A New Story from Short-Story.Me!

_Magenta moon and... - Editor_

INCARNADINE STARS

by Chris Deal

“When's the sun come up?” he asked from the other end of the bench, his voice quiet,
not his usual boisterousness. He was shrinking into himself as the night drifted.

“Not for another hour.”  I looked up, past the lamp's halo, past the city’s
lights, into the pale gray of the birthing day.

“Shit.” He spat the cigarette butt away, onto the walkway.

“Think you'll make it?” I light a another smoke and hand it to him, his hand shaking,
weak, then I do another for myself.

“Nah. Wish I would, but don't believe it to be.”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and there's a smudge on the black leather of my left
shoe. With a clean handkerchief I wipe away the dull incarnadine.  It came from him.

“Stars sure are clear,” he said.

“Yeah.  I figure that’s 'cause it's so cold.”

“How's that?” He coughs, and it is the sound of a blade cutting through wheat.

“I think it's the cold, it keeps the molecules in the atmosphere from vibrating, making
the stars appear clear.”

He grunted, or made a sound that could be construed as a grunt.

“But I ain't a scientist or nothing, so I don't know.  Could be we’re closer to them
in orbit or whatever.  I don’t know.”

“Sorry it went down like this,” I said.

I stood and walked toward the car, stopping only to pick up the lone casing, then away,
towards where the sun will soon be.

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