Herbert Alfricht


Herbert Alfricht sat on his enclosed front porch at three o’clock in the morning. The day had been a particularly odd day.

There had been a communion of senses, and neighbors. They surrounded their cars and ravaged the white crystals encasing their cars.

The old herbs burned slowly on the charcoal, as was intended, as he smoked his manufactured cigarette.

The first puff added a significant fragrance to the thistle, sunflower, sandlewood, and pine inscence.

The studious stout chilled his frozen touch, yet warmed his warning.

He closed his eyes as the children of the wind pushed at his storm windows. They laughed and whistled as they began to taunt.

He heard them running along the side of his house, pressing against every window in it’s pane.

He could hear the Halloween corn tacking against the front door. They threw his front door opened so it bent on it’s hinges.

They ran. His ears came back, and the cigarette intensified. The studious stout made him smile.

Old Herbert Alfricht knew what would come, so he had to hate everything about this world, so he wouldn’t miss it when he went.

“Damn those kids…”

“Damn Haloween!”

“Damn Snow!”

“Damn this stout!”

Goodbye Mr. Alfricht…

 

– Caleb A. Mertz

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Posted on February 3, 2011, in short prose and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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