Author's Note: This was more or less of an experiment on my part, as much of my focus here was on a situation's development through diologue, and my secondary focus was on presenting and developing a rather desolate-looking setting. I think I sort of succeeded, but then again, I'm the author, so I've got that bias working against me. My biggest complaint is that I included a bit of unnecissary diologue (I think), which gave a bit too much away and didn't leave enough to the reader's imagination. Ahh well.

I decided to try the whole diologue thing out after reading one of Hemingway's short stories. That guy was amazing. Depressing, but amazing.

Anyhow, on with the show...

“So it all just comes to this, does it?” His hair fell in front of his eyes as he leaned his head downwards, exhaling his held breath and pressing his back against the brick wall.

His partner smirked sardonically. “Yep.” He pressed his back against the wall in suit, before pulling a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboros, his lighter quickly following.

“Don’t be so stingy, John.” The man held out two fingers. “Give me one.”

John didn’t reply, simply cocked the package to shake a stick out of the end, holding out for his friend to snatch.

“Do I get a light?” he puffed on his cigarette after the flame touched the end. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Rick.”

Silence passed between the two of them. Wind blew their hair in their eyes as a car passed slowly by, the rubbing noises of the tires softly adding to the otherwise desolate ambiance. Above them, a crow cried out in miserable desperation, taking flight as the wires it perched upon swayed in a breeze. A lone feather from its wings drifted down and landed on the sidewalk next to the man named Rick.

He picked it up.

“Lynn proposed to me today.” He said, staring at the feather.

John cocked an eyebrow. “Did she now? Not vice versa?”

Rick didn’t offer a response.

John smirked again. “Of course not.” He said, more to himself. “You’re not that stupid.”

Rick threw the feather away. It landed in the street.

They puffed on their cigarettes for a while, no word passing between the two. The sun continued to beat down, rays so penetrating they were overbearing—even the cloudless sky did nothing to stand in the light’s way. Shade did little to ease the uncomfortable illumination.

It was like the sun wanted to really point out the sheer ugliness of this particular ghetto—remind the world that the buildings have long since been abandoned, that the streets are not only in need of repair, but completely destroyed from neglect and decay. It was as though the sun really wanted to point out to the few residents of the wretched place that the world didn’t care about their shame, their grief, their pitiful state. Now, even the sun wanted to make their lives seem like hell.

“We’ll be dead tomorrow.” John suddenly pointed out.

Rick nodded solemnly. “You’re right.” He said. “You’re absolutely right.”

John’s face formed into a vague frown. “You’ve already decided your fate, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t expect to walk out of it alive?”

“Don’t you?”

“Hah.” John threw his cigarette butt down on the ground and snubbed it with his boot, before pulling another one out and lighting it. He offered one to Rick, which he accepted.

He continued: “I suppose our lives were forfeit the day we joined that godforsaken group.”

Rick’s response was succinct. “Yep.”

Another round of silence passed. A group of kids walked into the fenced basketball court across the street, one of them toying idly with a ball. The court was used often by the few neighborhood kids that were still around, but even still the weeds managed to creep up through cracks and around links in the cage. The hoops of the baskets were rusted and the nets had rotted off years ago, but the kids played all the same. A game was a game anywhere, after all.

The relative silence was broken as John went into a coughing fit, covering his mouth with the hand that didn’t hold the poisonous smoke stick.

“You keep smoking like that and it’ll kill you.” Rick said. “That’s what they used to say, anyhow.”

Finally, his coughing round calmed down. “Hey, I don’t want hear it from somebody who smokes more than I do.”

“You’ve had three cigarettes just now!” His defense came in the form of rebuttal.

“And your pack ran out yesterday. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m not the one with tuberculosis.”

John didn’t respond to that.

They were quiet again, uneasy silence coupled with tension. John used a handkerchief to wipe the bloodied mucus off of his hand where his lungs had coughed themselves out of his chest.

“It doesn’t matter anyhow.” John finally broke the silence bitterly. “I’ll be dead by the end of tonight.” The truth returned the mood of the blaring day to solemnity.

“You’ve got more of a chance at surviving this thing than I do.” Rick said softly, resting his head against the wall.

John snorted and looked at him as he spoke. “Well, maybe if you gave up using that godforsaken automatic, you might just be able to shoot something once in a while.” He said. “Last kink we were in, the damned thing jammed every other shot. It’s time to throw that away and get a real rod, for chrissake.”

“What, like your six-shot Mateba?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“Sorry.” Rick pushed himself off the wall and cracked his neck. “Revolvers aren’t really my thing.” He said. “It takes too long to reload and it’s just awkward, you know?” His foot kicked a weed growing up in a crack in the sidewalk. “Besides, you’ve always been the better shot anyhow.”

“They’ve got speed-loaders for revolvers nowadays, and it’s actually easier to aim with a Mateba than it is with your blasted Glock. Glocks are a pain in the ass. Hell, automatics are a pain in the ass. Jamming on you every chance they bloody well get.” He shook his head and took a breath. “Besides, that’s half the beauty of revolvers in general. Less ammunition means that you need to choose your shots carefully—you need to actually aim before you take a shot.”

Rick smirked sardonically. “Imagine that.”

“Yeah,” John nodded, eyebrows arching up into his hairline. “Imagine that.”

They fell silent as the two of them fell back into the embrace of the wall’s sturdiness, taking in the oppressive sights and sounds with little duress. After awhile, the sun’s position in the sky shifted to bring more of the barely accommodating shade to within the wall’s grasp, shadows snaking up the sidewalk and encompassing the boots of the two onlookers. The kids in the court across the street got tired from the heat and the game, and eventually left after a disagreement, leaving the ball to roll idly to one corner of the uneven playing arena.

“You’re not going to go home to her?” John again broke the silence, the cigarette in his hand long having burnt away with few puffs taken.

“No.”

“I see.”

He tossed the butt away, watching it roll off the sidewalk and into a drainage gutter. Silence returned for a few minutes.

“Tell her…” Rick suddenly broke it, his halting words a testament to his uncertainty. “Tell her that I’m sorry for everything.”

Another cigarette lit under John’s flame. He puffed a few times, before speaking. “I’m sorry?”

“Tell her that, please?”

John coughed once, removing the cigarette as he did so. “No.”

The ragged man turned his attention to his partner. “Why not?”

“You tell her yourself.” He said. “If you want to apologize so badly, speak to her yourself.” He coughed again, waving his cigarette as he did so, smoke wisps leaving trails in the air. “I won’t be anybody’s middleman.”

Rick returned his gaze to the ground, sighing. “Sounds like something you would say.”

“It’s too bad, really.” John said. “You and Lynn would have made a nice couple.” He threw his already spent butt down on the ground and again snubbed it out. It was exactly the same as the first one.

Rick ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

“Yeah…” He said. “…We would have.”