The Realm and the Writer

Clint Barner was his name and he wore it like a badge. Holding himself as a shield against humanity. On that evening, in that cold unforgiving rain he walked. Walked to shed the despair which seemed to follow him like a faithful servant. Walked to forget the hardships and the solitude which hounded him relentlessly. He walked to find the reason behind it all, the world, everything.

The icy wet air stung at his rugged face, tearing his eyes and rustling his chestnut hair. His shoulders hunched against it's whirling force, the collar upturned around his strong neck. Hands stuffed securely in his pockets barring him further from natures fury. His heavy masculine gate splashes a cold spray of water around him. Under the cloak of his heavy khaki trench coat not even the darkness of his eyes can be seen.

A passer by, a woman, huddles close to the wall away from him. An unconscious urge to avoid his masked presence enshrouds her. Her dark flowered skirt wrapping dangerously around her pale legs.

He can hear the click of her heals hurrying off into the rainy distance. The roaring of the north wind in his ears. He stops for a moment to gain his bearing and walks on. Into the dark night of the city.