His Pest


There was the going sideways that I wondered about. The times when even the brightness was not enough for him. Jacob Obedia carried a pest about inside and sometimes that critter took hold. There was the two-tone twist of words that, when laid down had all appearances of the mighty sword cutting through into the now and clean, the refreshed, renewed and known. But peeled away, every inch of those words travelled back and flipped over where the underneath revealed all the markings he held in hidden pockets.

Most of those markings were in sympathetic union with his body, polished enough to go unnoticed especially at first glance. They’d fall away and reattach at random where need and want interlaced in the place where hope and despair mingled. A longer gander betrayed the thing that rose up over his right shoulder hailing the monstrous echo of death. It was the calling of conviction made from the scrapings of heartache and collapse. This was where the pest announced its presence inviting unfinished business to the table. It was an agreement that not even I could enter. The pest and he were one. They dragged each other along taking turns as the back leg of quasimoto and as the front brigade of valour. And sometimes that turn went sideways.

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