cameobug
A single sound, like a bell. Clear and silver. Then, the crack of a gun and a hundred reflective pieces scattered across the floor.
Five fingers four toes. Where was the last toe? It had definitely been removed, possibly violently as the place where it had once been was a mass of healed, lumpy skin.
The fingers on both hands were turning a sickly shade of gray. He cupped them around his mouth and breathed warm air on them. God, what he wouldn't have given to be back sweating in that factory, shoveling coal into the furnace.
I stood on the edge, on the cold metal rail. Tip toeing across the icy bar as if there were a canyon below my feet rather than chunks of gray asphalt and stubborn weeds. In the distance, I heard a lonely shriek.