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Short stories

Knave of Spades

Dig my grave, clown. Dig it well, dig it good, dig it like a devil down in hell should. Call me the knave of spades – Uncle Black Jack; nephew to the universe; cousin to birth’s curse, and to death’s boon.

     Daniel in the wilderness never lost; though once for five days a might bewildered. Way out in the boonies, lost finds a way to get a way out.

     Space weaves time’s web. Few and far between any who off the spin wean. I am not one of those either, though once a minute for five days lost in ether.

     Call me a joker, call me a card. Grunt I lard the world big with ambiguity. Hear but the top, never peek underneath, till you find yourself with the slops out on the heath.

     Chuck that earth, while you chuckle at my rave at the knave of spades. Dig my grave, clown. Dig it well, dig it good, dig it like a devil down in hell should. 

     I am not one of those either, though once a day for five minutes lost in ether.

     Deal me off the bottom. Cheat me at solitaire. Whip my butt in the woodshed. But never for me shed a single tear.

     Dig my grave, clown.

     Do me the boon, knave of spades, to dig.

Willie Smith

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