Rob’s phone started ringing relentlessly. Dismayed, didn’t deduce it. He left the house with a bottle of vodka in his jeans pocket, heading for the train station. Regina seemed to leave a hole in his ears and heart like a mad meteorite.
He had no intention of picking up, but the sound bore pretentious bits in the passengers' ears like a precocious Christmas song.
He dropped the bottle on the floor several times, staggering to pick it up. Luckily, it didn't break, but it caught the attention of a few punters.
Ruby was one of them.
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
Where wild roses grow full of words...
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My Pen is
My Peace is My Pen Arguing happens again, the police at the door making reports of domestic abuse. Screams can be heard down the alley from my bedroom window. Gunshots ricochet from the bricks of my home, on the floor we sleep. We wake to see the damage, blood spilled in the streets where we played. Let’s see who can catch this football in the vacant lot of a church that supplied the neighborhood with supplies such as clothing and food. The neighbors running trap houses as kids wait for seven o’clock to hear Mr. Frostee tunes blaring from around the corner. I can remember begging for dollars from the locals just for a vanilla soft served cone. My mother always liked hers dipped. We get ready for dinner, another soulful meal prepared by the man and woman that loved us.
By Charelle Landers6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This would actually be a great story if it weren't so rushed and a bit longer. Regardless it's good as it is.