Just a snippet I wrote the other day

And as a float away in this tin can
Through the ocean of blackness; the sea of stars
I can't stop thinking that I'll never see another person again
And while we weren't the best, as people
We sure were...
Well, we sure were.

The Second Hand - Chapter I (may be continued; probably not)

Tick, tick, tick…
The clock strikes midnight.

I lie on the couch, my arm dangled down the side like a tie on a rack. To my right, a worn table holds the consumed spoils of a trip to the shops: an empty coke can, two packets of crisps and a sandwich, enjoyed, but unfinished. Under it, a rug lies askew, stuck beneath those legs; dead on the floor. The TV is playing infomercials; a woman explains the benefits of a brand new brush, and how young it makes her feel. The kitchen tap trickles and drips in the background. I never got that fixed.

There is a loud bang on the door.
“Sir!” a man yells through the wood.
I don’t get up.
After a short pause, his associates break the lock and four men burst into my hallway. Their plans and chatter echo in my direction, gaining in volume, accompanied by the sound of their footsteps on my hardwood floors.
They stop just above me, but the talking continues like I’m not there.
“Who is this guy?”
”Shirley Rumack.”
“A man named Shirley? That’s unfortunate.”
I agree with him. That name haunted me from the day I was born. I haven’t let anyone call me that since I was 10, and wish he would follow suit.

“So, what happened?”
”A stabbing. We’ve got to take in Shirley here.”
I don’t know what they’re talking about.
“How’d it go down?”
“Well, from what we know, he snuck in and stabbed the guy with a knife from the kitchen while he was on the phone. Didn’t see it coming.”
I stay on the couch. I don’t remember any of this.
Two of the men go and check the kitchen. The others stand over me, their breath warm on my cold neck. One of them has on a large, brown coat, buttoned nearly to the top; probably their leader. He has bags under his eyes.
The two men return from the kitchen, one brandishing one of my knives, which seems to be drenched in blood.
“We found this on the bench.”
“Right, I think that’s all we need. Let’s take this guy downtown.”
With the clock still ticking, the tap still running and the TV still blabbering on, they carry me down the stairs to their van in the parking lot. Two of the men lie me down in the back. I can’t fight, so I just let them.

During the journey to the station, we pass a lot of the places I remember from my childhood: the school where I was educated, the park where I played football every weekend, and my old house, just around the corner, where I grew up. They were always happy, whimsical places, but now they’re shrouded in shadow; abandoned and empty. I don’t think I’ll ever see these places again.

The station is a worn down building: the walls covered in a certain grime that cannot be cleaned by any amount of scrubbing; the floors scuffed with the memories of many different shoes. They pull me out of the van, onto a stretcher and wheel me inside. I still don’t know what I’m doing here.
We head down countless flights of stairs and into a cold, metal room, full of freezers. It’s extremely quiet, almost calmingly so, except for the ticking of another clock on the wall.
Once inside, the men meet other men. They all wear lab coats. This must be forensics.
“So, this is…” the man checks his clipboard. “Shirley Rumack?”
“Yeah, this is him.”
“Right. Did you get any evidence?”
”Right here.”
The man holds up my kitchen knife, now in a bag.
“I see. Stabbed with this, eh?”
”Yep, while he was on the phone.”
”Eugh. Any idea about who the killer is?”
“None at all. Have this knife examined for fingerprints.”
The man with the knife nods and leaves the room.
The leader turns to me.
“We’ll find who killed you, Shirley.” He says, depressedly. “Somehow.”

Tick, tick, tick…
The clock strikes one.