the cup sat empty. It had been that way for years. The old man, the one who drank in his car outside the supermarket had up and died years ago. His cup sat in the empty car though, a testimony to habit.
The artist sits hunched over his work. Hands skillfully blend colors. An imagine of the sunset slowly appears on the once blank canvas. Reds yellows pinks and golds all working in harmony to light up a fading blue sky.
The patient groaned. He rolled over, pain etched across his innocent face. His mother bent over the stretcher, concern drawing her face in tight lines. She couldn’t believe all that had happened in the past few hours.
They were ugly. Stark. They stuck up from the desert ground like flowers. The plastic flamingos decorated the trailerpark in such a way as to make everything around them more beautiful, in comparision.