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December 28, 2007


Broke, smoke, or joke.

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We stepped out of the airport terminal, and into the surprisingly warm November air. It had been a long trip, and Sarah needed that hit of nicotine more than ever.

As we stood next to the line of cabs and buses, people of all types wandered by. An older man approached in a dirty jacket holding a tattered bag.

"Do you have any money for the bus?"

"Sorry, no I don't."

Then a teenager walked up, just as my sister took that first joyful drag.

"Do you have a spare cigarette?"

"Sorry kid, my pack didn't come with any spares."

Posted by: Nick at December 28, 2007 9:44 AM · Permalink

The old man sits with the smoke and the ghosts, playing knickknack on his old breaking knee bones. He stares out the window with hollowing eyes, the better to probe the black midnight skies, and wanders along his memories. His rocking chair creaks like dead, fallen leaves.
He plays knick to remember, knack to forget. One is for hunger, the other, regret.
He stirs up the dust in his frittering home, and then he holds up the last of her bones.
The dog, it squithers and slithers away.
“It was meant to be a joke,” was all he could say.

Posted by: Meowbag at December 28, 2007 4:05 PM · Permalink

Check before you post!