Saturday 15 October 2011

Cry, the imprint was ashen

Under a sycamore tree in Kensal Green Cemetery sat George, waiting to be discovered. He'd arrived by way of G.K. Chesterton and he was a gem.

He cradled a flask of strong coffee, his back to the cold, stone memory of one William S. Simpson 1927-2011. He could feel the imprints of those dates against his back; 1927 meant nothing to him but 2011 meant everything. For this was the year. This was George's year. He had no plan, someone else could cover that bit, but he had the potential.

There were many possibilities, many ways the universe could utilize an asset such as he. As some people put it: God's will could send him anywhere. He didn't know about God, hell, he didn't know about the universe but he knew about himself. He knew about George. A prophet maybe, or a politician. A commander on the battlefield or a muse to world. An interpreter of truth, a philosopher or an artist.

He opened the flask to refill his cup and more steam escaped, sweeping up his breathe in the cold air. He lit a cigarette and let the smoke seep from his lips. He waited and cooled, lending his body heat to the silent graveyard for just the briefest of times.

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