Saturday, January 3, 2015


There was something about his swollen knuckles, scarred hands, and rusted voice that made me listen.

As he held my arm, the grey-faced stranger spoke, “Don’t. I fought a man for woman, once. You don’t understand. Don’t draw that gun. Don’t say those words writ large on yer eyes, son.”

I finished my whiskey and slid through the door. The golden light behind sent my shadow coursing ahead. Stars shimmered in the distant black. Cold winds caressed my shoulders. I lit a cigarette and walked away.

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