Domino

by Anthony Ward

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I preside in darkness. In this coffin. For what seems like eternities. Crammed like sardines with the other twenty-seven. All made of bone. Then, out of the blackness we hear muffled sounds of voices accompanied by coughing. We become weightless, knocking against each other as we rattle around in a quake. A shaft of light pierces those at the front as the lid slides open to expose their ivory complexion.

I hear the grumbling of the growlers. Hard done by their best efforts. Twisting this and that, with contorted chewed up faces slouching above me through plumes of smoke.

I’m turned face down, swept around, clockwise, then anticlockwise, scouring my face, before being laid on my side, scrutinised by old Joe. I never knew young Joe, nor even Joe. He plays me. I lie here, Double Blank, spotless, staring at the ceiling. The lamp shade is still half-cocked. Been that way as far as I’ve known. Though I’m not sure about that crack in the ceiling. I think that one may have extended since last time I saw.

Blank six is laid to rest adjacent to me. Then Joe puts down blank two. I lose off what numbers played next, just lie staring straight up at the crack in the ceiling listening to the bouts of clacks and coughing.

“I’m knocking.” says Ron.

“Joe lays his last domino.” Then cackles into a wheeze.

“Well played.” Says Ron rising from his seat with his half glass of stout.

Joe coughs himself into a choke. Flapping his arms as his face purples.

“You alright Joe?” asks the frantic barmaid.

“I’m fine lass,” he replies, spluttering, “I’m fine.”

The table turns over and I’m hurled under one of the chairs. A thud follows. Joe’s red face swollen, his muffled eyes looking at me from the darkness where I preside for what feels like an eternity.