Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Fresh as the Newly-Fallen




John Deakin came to with a start. He was still in the Formica-walled cubicle of the Fox and Geese, his trousers and boxer shorts around his ankles. He’d dozed off then. Bloodshot eyes glanced at his watch. 23:22. He’d slept for less than five minutes.

He pulled up his clothes. Five minutes to dream of eternity. He’d been enveloped in golden light, cradled in the arms of his mother yet free to move and talk and… fly.

John wept for the loss of the dream. It had felt so real, so perfect. Then he had dreamed of leaving behind the golden warmth for the inky cold as his wings were cut from his back and he Fell into this squalid world. He reached for the beer he’d brought into the toilet with him but it was on its side, spilt; wasted.

His eyes glowed red with anger. Someone would pay.

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