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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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