There was the painting on his bed. He leaned toward it from the chair; the floorboards creaked again. He took another sip of gin from the short glass in his hand savoring the taste upon his lips and pulled the painting closer toward him. Distant voices called to him. He could hear the men, their screams as gunfire hailed upon them. He gripped his drink. Dark, shadowy images of children clinging to their mothers appeared while cavalry stormed in to crush them. Swords in the gun smoke were raised to the sky reflecting the faint sun, and brought down in swift strokes to cut the innocent down. He clenched his jaw and stared. The darkly lit room began to fade, and to his dark eyes there was only the painting.
YOU ARE READING
The Astor House of Old Shanghai
Science FictionOn the eve of the 20th century, an American Marine on the run from a crime committed during the Spanish-American War seeks refuge at The Astor House in Shanghai. Alone and weary, he tries to settle into the familiar Western surroundings of his hotel...
