Flawed heroes and coffee

Hunter S Thompson

I never knew which way he was thinking, or which way he was walking.
His head twitching around with every errant thought spark.
His legs flailing at air making no attempt at direction.
What a dangerously wonderful mixture he was.



She sits low and shiny, and rusty, old but purposeful. I press the button in the chrome door handle, and pull open the door, sit myself into the sagging seat. the cabin smells of vinyl, oil and gasoline. The large slim rimmed steering wheel sits in my lap, a chrome horn ring smiles in the centre. To my left the long gearstick reaches up to me offering a large chrome ball. I rattle it from side to side, pull the choke half way out and push the ignition key into the dashboard, twist and listen to the starter motor whine for a turn or two, till the engine bursts into life. Misfiring and spluttering till I get the choke just so. Wind the window crank to get some air, push in the clutch, select first, look around over the low seats, all clear. give her some throttle and kangaroo into another vintage car adventure.


The sun pours in through the kitchen window.
Lighting a row of miscellaneous cups on an eye level shelf.
I take a white cup, a kitten stares adorably out of its porcelain flank.
Warming the machine at the press of a button, light glows and electricity hums.
Behind the oak door swinging open, a box, the package within crushed down.
Rattling in a drawer I find a spoon, the shiniest amongst its peers.
Spoon coffee into filter, placing cup under the spout.
Tiny aromatic clouds rise from the filling cup.
The light, the sound and smell of morning.


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