7 June 2012
In the deep dark hills of Eastern Kentucky, that's the place where I trace my bloodline. And it's there I read on a hillside gravestone, You will never leave Harlan alive. The sun falls to the horizon, relinquishing its fight. I took one last breath of deathly solace, and trotted down the hill, making my way into town. My boots brushing dust up all the way. The air was pure and the sunset peaceful; I thought to myself...
What a nice day to die
Shutters slammed as I pass through the side streets, my spurs dragging along the ground. I straightened my hat, taking in a last glimpse of the mountains as I pull the brim over my eyes. No one ever knew they hid coal, until a hundred dollar bill-throwing gentleman from civilisation arrived. Said he'd pay us for our minerals. But he never left Harlan alive. Men stared at me from their porches, blackened faces but eyes ablaze. Children played in the umber puddles, before being hurried inside by their mothers. I curse God because I know they never get out in time. I reached the house of the Lord and felt my trembling hand tip my hat to the figure on the cross. A foreboding omen, a destiny. I heard a shout from behind. The man behind the bar at the saloon filled a glass with brown liquor and held out a quivering hand to me. He scurried away as quick as he could. But moments later, a bang, he didn't survive. The bitter brew raced down my throat and gave fire to my heart, spurring me on to my fate. I see the old shack, where my Father, Grandad and I were born and raised. After my Dad perished at the age of twenty-nine, my Grandad sold out and whisked my Granny out west. They danced a jig, and drank a jug. Chanting...
“Who said we'd never leave Harlan alive”
But times were tough, and tobacco wasn't selling. My grandad knew what he'd have to do to survive. He skinned his hands searching for Harlan coal, sending the spoils to my Gran. But he never left Harlan alive.
My boot heels hit the centre of town. Ten men stood before me, calloused hands caressed their revolvers. Night has risen and the air wass silent. This could only end one way. I remembered a song my grandaddy once taught me, when I was sick as he stroked my head. My mouth opened and my voice filled the sky.
“... you spend your life just thinkin’ of how to get away”
The men were shifting in shock. Uncomfortable by my lament. But the last thing that left this scarred throat, was a song.
“... you spend your life digging coal from the bottom of your grave”
The thugs were getting angry. The muscles in their faces tightened with their eyes fixed on their prey. Before the last sentence left my body, I let out a chuckle because I knew they would...
“...never leave Harlan alive”
I pulled the revolver from my holster, shooting the shadows with my ears ringing with their shrieks and mine. Bullets passed through my chest like a knife to butter. The warm Kentucky night dissipated into a Harlan one. I fell down to a dusty deathbed. Coughing up red and fading away.
In the deep, dark hills of Eastern Kentucky, thats where they trace my bloodline. And it's where they read on a hillside gravestone...
He never left Harlan alive.
You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive • Opuss № I