Michael Sroka
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Stories (2/0)
THE TRAIN
A long white hair from his nose curled down and strummed the ridge line of his upper lip as he chewed. The old nasty hotdog he must have bought from the dining car was coated in at least three packets of some kind of dark brown deli mustard he had pulled out of his dusty pocket. The emptiness in his eyes, which never seemed to move, despite the rapid banking as the train twisted and rolled roughly over the dark forlorn track, seemed to swallow the dimness of the overhead light. He chewed sloppily, never fully closing his lips and a droplet of mustard-stained drool dripped out of the corner of his mouth cutting a wet yellow track down his chin and disappeared into his beard. The unkempt scraggly patch of silver hair that bordered his face, kept within it, unyielding, any sense of emotion that he could make out; an impenetrable corral of hate that either kept all sense of happiness out or kept his sadness tightly held within.
By Michael Sroka2 years ago in Fiction