In the six-penny den where the gamblers
drink
and rub gold coins between shaking fingers they pretend is just a way to hide their tell by using one that everyone can see and know,
skeletons
play a deep dark jazz they call Fontaine Noir, because everyone knows French adds an aura of mystery, foreign but still totally understood, the fake thrill of a rollercoaster with the guardrails in place. Skeleton hands play skeleton tunes that the ear can’t hear but the
heart
feels, shivers in the bottom of its cups and puts another
coin
on the table. Gambling is just a way of
dying
slowly, with the ups and downs they can’t handle from life, but in this gritty salon with the other empty men they have run so far there’s nowhere left to go, and they all know it and there’s a certain
comfort
in the knowledge that all those rushes of hope won’t ever really get you anywhere, but you feel them anyhow and it gives you a reason to keep on playing, so they spread the cards and roll the dice and the music eats away at the little voice inside that whispers
‘Run’
So they don’t. In the six-penny den where the gamblers
drink
and skeletons play Fontaine Noir there’s an empty chair, room for one
more.
Image courtesy of Kieran Macanulty. Check out Kieran’s website, Purple Sock Studios, or read more about him on Our Contributors Page.