Skeleton of the Past

A dim morning descends upon a lifeless town blanketed in wintry chill and depression. A lone, withered car sputters along the main road, its windows obscured by layers of frost. A puff of dirty smog erupts from the aged tailpipe, and a dead breeze limply swirls the exhaust through the air. An emaciated old man sits hunched over the steering wheel, his gaunt hands extending from the sleeves of a frayed bomber jacket. Bags of melted flesh eternally swell out from below his hazy, sunken eyes. One ear is tattered, like a book left out for the dog to enjoy. The other does not exist. His head is completely bald underneath a floppy hat that should have retired half a century ago. His lips are cracked, coated in caked blood.

Beneath his seat, a glittering metal blade lies in wait….

On Thin Ice

The regret shot through him with icy shards of venomous glass. The thorny knife blades dripping with poison slashed his soul and refused to quit. Every second grew worse and his brain screamed fury of the worst kind. He hated himself through and through, right down to that third freckle on his right hand. His heart bled and his eyes burned with the torrent of tears now soaking his face. His shoulders heaved in pure anguish, his body rocking back and forth and his throat choked with violent sobs.

But there was that single strand of hope that, in time, he would learn to snatch onto.