My hands shook with lingering nerves as a grasped the handle to the only thing that had kept us alive for the last 24 hours. Readying myself to open pandora’s box, unleash whatever horrors still lurked beyond our closed door.
Regardless of the cabin fever itching away at my patience, I lingered. If the cacophony we had heard was any indication, the storm we had weathered was like no other. What could await us on the other side?
His weathered face looked as though he had endured pain for hundreds of years. The fine lines next to his eyes creased deeply, but a gentle smile spread across his lips. Although he looked broken psychically, with his joints out of place and his hands shaking; spiritually he was unbreakable.
been out on the street too long. the creases are deep. my knees don’t bend right. i have a night cough that is now a day cough, an all the time cough. the cops are getting meaner. people don’t like the sight fof you
Hands. His hands. Weathered, leathery, bold. He spent years on this road, walking back and forth. Sunday mornings with the paper. Friday nights with his lady. Now in his weathered hands he held nothing but the memories of better days. He was alone, just he and his weathered hands.
The bucket had dints, scratches, marks. It showed its years. It showed its age. No one, however, would know what it had seen in the yard it belonged to. The scratches has gone soft, subjected to the rain, wind, and soft, melting touch of the hot sun. But if this bucket could talk.
She picked up the box. For years it had been hiddedn in her yard, unbeknownst to all but one. The paint chipped, time had weathered it. She clutched it against her chest. ” Let’s go.”
My hands shook with lingering nerves as a grasped the handle to the only thing that had kept us alive for the last 24 hours. Readying myself to open pandora’s box, unleash whatever horrors still lurked beyond our closed door.
Regardless of the cabin fever itching away at my patience, I lingered. If the cacophony we had heard was any indication, the storm we had weathered was like no other. What could await us on the other side?
His weathered face looked as though he had endured pain for hundreds of years. The fine lines next to his eyes creased deeply, but a gentle smile spread across his lips. Although he looked broken psychically, with his joints out of place and his hands shaking; spiritually he was unbreakable.
been out on the street too long. the creases are deep. my knees don’t bend right. i have a night cough that is now a day cough, an all the time cough. the cops are getting meaner. people don’t like the sight fof you
Hands. His hands. Weathered, leathery, bold. He spent years on this road, walking back and forth. Sunday mornings with the paper. Friday nights with his lady. Now in his weathered hands he held nothing but the memories of better days. He was alone, just he and his weathered hands.
The bucket had dints, scratches, marks. It showed its years. It showed its age. No one, however, would know what it had seen in the yard it belonged to. The scratches has gone soft, subjected to the rain, wind, and soft, melting touch of the hot sun. But if this bucket could talk.
She picked up the box. For years it had been hiddedn in her yard, unbeknownst to all but one. The paint chipped, time had weathered it. She clutched it against her chest. ” Let’s go.”