One In The Mourning It was raining inside. The cigarette was lit. He let it dangle from his lips. Too tired to even take a drag. His body felt weathered, scarred veins stitched their way along his translucent skin, making him look like a roadmap to Hell. The rain fell heavy from his moai eyes in fat drops that splashed a now empty flask he held onto like a talisman. He wondered if rubbing its slick surface would give him a wish like Aladdin, but genies probably preferred living in bronze oil lamps to shitty containers of cheap rye. Besides, he ran out of wishes years ago, just like he ran out of wives, and his last 8-1/2 lives.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Jun 2013 07:45:15 +0000
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