From OF CURTAINS AND MEN

The young man held his breath.

He wiped the sweat running down his cheeks from the aching temples where a mass of golden-brown hair stuck, strands to scalp. He shivered, the cold air like a bath of ice on his strained muscles. The smells of rain-drowned grass, booze, cigar and cum enjoined, making him cough. Or maybe he coughed because he had forgotten to button up his shirt, as well as his pants. He had even left his wallet, left everything else he knew to be his.

Walks. Cries. Flies.

The young man headed the wrong way.

There was no way, he thought. Right or wrong. No all I have, I carry with me. All I need.

My words, just my words all screaming, fluttering, laughing, talking, forming, f%&=ing inside my head.

Write. Think. Murmur. Think!

Just my words. Always my words –
And breath.



From OF CURTAINS AND MEN: a short story. cris