When the man with the gun stopped by for his glass of wine & a hug from La Senora we thought all would be well with our world & for a few days it was. No more mealy-mouthed muggers to worry the neighborhood & no more blood in the culverts. But that all ended just as fast as it had begun. It’s now Thursday & no one is free to reminisce. In fact, no one wants to be around any of us. Oh. There’s the occasional crank call & alerts. But, for the most part, we’ve quartered alone. Samson was the first to crack. Who can say why? He was always the most impetuous. Someone penned a note that made the rounds. There would be a rendezvous at the lake Saturday night. Our options would be revealed. Saturday night rolled around & I heard music in the distance a bit like that cool jazz from the 1950’s. Through the light fog, I could barely make out the silhouette of a sailing ship with the lines of a schooner. It was then he came from the dunes with her on his arm. He smoked a long cheroot & she a meerschaum pipe. As they came closer he gestured for me to follow. At the ship I walked the plank & settled aboard. The dockhands tossed the lines & we were under sail. Two days later we landed on Atoll Hercules where I was to stay until my days were few & my story had become historically irrelevant . . . That’s all I remember of that time & those who were in my company. Once the ship departed there were only the rowers who came in the night & the harness & the incessant chimes.
Musical composition by Victor D. Sandiego