The Apples of Wrath – Dead Deer

The Apples of Wrath

He was from Kiev, the man I met on the funicular railway. It suddenly seemed such a long way away, to him and to me. His air was that of a man not yet defeated, not fully. He sighed and sunk a tiny bit more upon learning the distance from Mersch to Hollenfels. I, in providing this information, I felt as a cold assassin must feel, slightly.

From his distant starting point – ‘in Ukraine’, he clarified, in the manner of one giving a present – he was heading for Hollenfels, you see. It seemed imperative that I should discover the nub of this enigma, yet his confused statements became a little more closed, on each attempt.

We spoke a mixture of his terrible English and a French that we appeared to be locked in a desperate need to murder, more fully and more rapidly than the other. It was as if our very lives depended on it; should one of us leave a breath of life in French, perhaps, we would be condemned ourselves. These linguistic dilapidations left us further confused and diminished. I suggest freely that on his part this was somewhat deliberate.

Once again I was struck by something being out of kilt. A man smoking, without cigarettes. An assumption of something hidden, hidden beneath an elderly, benign exterior. He left, I pointed him to platform one, he had fifteen minutes to wait for his train north, his destiny, maybe? My train pulled out a few moments later.

I never saw the man from Kiev again, and I never learned of his purpose. The apple crop in the north that year, however, was devastatingly disappointing.

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Today I wrote  between 12:37 and 12:47.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here.

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