Lifting his face and sniffing, the Beast could pick up traces of morning
departures. They were rich with anticipation, pregnant with the
snappish arguments of road trips, the disappointing arrivals at places
which, after all, weren’t different enough from home to matter. There
was, already, the resigned dread of Sunday evenings after a weekend
filled with busyness. The Beast could survive on such fumes, like a
fruit fly, but he wouldn’t say it was much of a life.
Read in: Paper Dragon Volume 8: Horror.
****************************************
[read Paper Dragon Volume 8: Horror]
No comments:
Post a Comment