Experimental Rose Prose Thunder

A child of (maybe) nine, living on my street, lets me read his Dream Journal.

It's full of lies.

Lizard men and volcanoes, sharks battling amongst the stars - come off it kid.

Lightning swords cut swathes through Angel Wings. She sings. Blurry-eyed, the child sinks to the sidewalk and melts into the drain. Mother's tears mix with dust and rust the pipes. Rats give-up in the thousands.

A Man on a Horse going by the name of Desperado: hat tucked down, stained with oil, rises in his saddle to look over the concrete jungle. Old, the road, cracked and blistering; vapor escapes from its pockmarked face like a ghost.

Desperado extracts his rifle from its weather-beaten, leather scabbard. The horse shudders, bucks. Desperado goes down, the butt of the rifle strikes the hard earth, and the barrel explodes... a round enters Desperado's cheek, his eye melts against the heat of the blast. His brains are scrambled.

The child runs to its mother. Dinner time.