A Small Glass Of Milk

I’m writing again. Here’s a new short story. -mike

punch key drunk

Ray walked along the crackled cement sidewalk, clutching his open paperback book in the fingers of his right hand, uninvolved in his surroundings of tall buildings and men coming home from jobs and sunglassed women swinging shopping bags determined in their gait. He didn’t understand them. They weren’t alive like the characters in the stories. His feet hit the ground and clopped with each clumsy step of his battle-scarred walnut chukkas. The rain drops fell hard and cold like his eyes onto the pages, hitting the words and dampening them, until they were blurred enough his glasses couldn’t make them out. The clouds had rolled in suddenly. You could still make out God’s fingers slightly breaking through behind the grey. It would pass. Everything does. Gently sprinkling, the rain felt good on his arms and cheeks and secretly balding brown hair—soothing the metropolis, not in this world, but in his…

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Posted on 06/21/2013, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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