(brief renderings) Joe Fazio
A Bad Day To Die... - Poem by (brief renderings) Joe Fazio
His favorite time of the year here at York Beach Maine, was December. For the last six years, he would leave the concrete jungle of downtown Boston, to the seclusion of the beach front motel, La Casa De Campo. He told those he sought to escape from, he would be 'out of the country, ' until after the first of the year. Here, it was just himself, some good books, and a few of the locals.
Smack in the middle of scores of older wooden structures, stood a modern, Spanish style,36 room motel. It was owned by a retired pluming and heating contractor. He built it for his early sixties, Latin wife, who was still a looker. They lived on the premises and this time of the year, they had but one guest, Nickoli Anastasia.
The Campo's didn't know much about Anastasia, except for the fact he rented the entire motel from December 1 until January 2...every year. He always arrived December 15th, paid cash in advance, and took the same room facing the ocean.
Anastasia had been in house for 10 days, it was December 25, Christmas. It was 11.a.m. Outside the sky was as dark as the inside of a coal mine. A torrential downpour, burst from the blackened sky, pounding with a vengeance, every square inch of York Maine.
Anastasia, trance like, moved along the oceanfront. The rain, like a million tiny needles, stung his nude body. A raging sea crashed against the seawall, as the pounding waves, vibrated through his body, and thundered in his ears.
Stumbling, with one hand held over his right eye, blood seeped from a deep gash buried right above his hairline.The warm red liquid, steadily slid between his fingers and into his eye. Unrelenting, the rain continued to wash the red liquid of life, down his body and into the desolate street.
He felt himself weakening, slowly slumping to his knees, to the icy wet pavement. As if in slow motion, the body that now seemed to belong to someone else, pitched forward.
He lay there, face down...motionless and oblivious to all around him. His mind was flooded with memories of her. He knew three things. He knew how he got there. He knew who did this to him and he knew...he was dying.
© Joe Fazio
Comments about A Bad Day To Die... by (brief renderings) Joe Fazio
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You