Devil's Breath
1
Danny sat hunched over his writing desk. He’d been there for so long that the cushion no longer snapped back to its original state. The edge of the desk was discolored and worn from the decades where his wrists rubbed against the wood as he frantically wrote, filling notebook after notebook with words that came to him faster than his hands could move.
This one is for the dreamers
For the star-crossed lovers who never met
For the hopelessly hopeful
And for the agonizingly lonely
This book is for those whose hearts are too heavy
This one is for every person who has felt the sting of unrequited love
I wrote this book for you
For those of you who have grasped at love, but never felt it
I wrote this for those who have never seen his face
Yet you have felt the Devil’s Breath
“Danny, honey, did you hear me?” Danny jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of his wife, Shelby. “Honey, we have to go soon. We’re going to be late.” He turned his back to her and picked up his pen again. Ink to paper. That’s how he liked it. There was no appreciation for the physical process of writing anymore. Everyone in all the workshops he’d been to used their fancy laptops that could pull apart and turn into a pad. He hated it, and even more than that, he despised them. The art of writing was lost. The art of everything was lost in this age of faster, thinner, and more convenient. Danny never felt like he belonged here.
He felt a warm hand curl over his shoulder and instantly pulled away. A quick flash of rage washed over him. “I’m working, Shelby! Damnit.” Shelby’s hand dropped away and fell by her side. He watched as her surprise turned to anger then melted into a deep sadness. Shelby was always sad, and it pissed him off.
“I’m leaving in five minutes.” Shelby turned, her teal kitten heels clicking on the hardwood floors as she left his study. He could hear her rustling in the kitchen, opening the bedroom door, and then walking out the front door with her keys. He stood, pulled his brown leather jacket over his shoulders and made his way out the front door.
Shelby was sitting the passenger seat gazing out the window away from him. Danny opened the door and he could feel the tension seeping from the car. He yanked the seatbelt over his body and threw the car in reverse. The drive to the prison was forty-five minutes and neither of them said a word. Although neither one said it, they both dreaded seeing their daughter in her threadbare vomit-colored uniform. Halfway through the ride, Danny unbuckled his seatbelt, rolled down the window, and lit his last, lucky cigarette.
This one is for the dreamers
For the star-crossed lovers who never met
For the hopelessly hopeful
And for the agonizingly lonely
This book is for those whose hearts are too heavy
This one is for every person who has felt the sting of unrequited love
I wrote this book for you
For those of you who have grasped at love, but never felt it
I wrote this for those who have never seen his face
Yet you have felt the Devil’s Breath
“Danny, honey, did you hear me?” Danny jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of his wife, Shelby. “Honey, we have to go soon. We’re going to be late.” He turned his back to her and picked up his pen again. Ink to paper. That’s how he liked it. There was no appreciation for the physical process of writing anymore. Everyone in all the workshops he’d been to used their fancy laptops that could pull apart and turn into a pad. He hated it, and even more than that, he despised them. The art of writing was lost. The art of everything was lost in this age of faster, thinner, and more convenient. Danny never felt like he belonged here.
He felt a warm hand curl over his shoulder and instantly pulled away. A quick flash of rage washed over him. “I’m working, Shelby! Damnit.” Shelby’s hand dropped away and fell by her side. He watched as her surprise turned to anger then melted into a deep sadness. Shelby was always sad, and it pissed him off.
“I’m leaving in five minutes.” Shelby turned, her teal kitten heels clicking on the hardwood floors as she left his study. He could hear her rustling in the kitchen, opening the bedroom door, and then walking out the front door with her keys. He stood, pulled his brown leather jacket over his shoulders and made his way out the front door.
Shelby was sitting the passenger seat gazing out the window away from him. Danny opened the door and he could feel the tension seeping from the car. He yanked the seatbelt over his body and threw the car in reverse. The drive to the prison was forty-five minutes and neither of them said a word. Although neither one said it, they both dreaded seeing their daughter in her threadbare vomit-colored uniform. Halfway through the ride, Danny unbuckled his seatbelt, rolled down the window, and lit his last, lucky cigarette.