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Happy Hour


Image: Pixabay


‘Happy Hour’. What a joke.

The wind is sharp as a papa's razor, cutting through my shirt, grazing my ribs. The air's coloured with urine. A dead pigeon lies pressed on the pavement, feathers still flapping, still keen to fly.

I close my eyes, imagine the tug of the wind on wide wings, the thrill in my chest as I lift, soar above the traffic stink, leave the rotting corpse of this city behind…

‘Hey!’ Tommy’s standing in the doorway. ‘Do some goddamn work!’

I take my cloth, go back to wiping tables.

But the wind still tugs me.

***

This post was just this minute written for the Friday Fictioneers flash fiction prompt which is run by the incomparable Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. One story, one hundred words - come and have a go if you think you're hard enough.

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