Timerling

 

Lightening illuminated cascading clouds as the stranger removed a lodged stone from an ill fitting shoe. Rubbing the soles of his feet with a sigh he placed down his stick and hobbled to the grass verge beyond. 

He had come this way once before and never wished to return. This time he feared would be his last.

Taking an uncomfortable seat beside the road leading somewhere without a name; or at least a name he wouldn’t dare pronounce – he paused looking upwards in awe of something he could not name or explain. 

Another crack in the dark emphasised lines mapped on frown, chiseled years of wear, exposure to better elements than these. A life carewasted in search of a thing he’d never found.

Fat raindrops hit these grooves and flowed river like accumulating at the tip of a bulbous nose, only to be wiped away by calloused hands and an oilskin sleeve.

“Goddamn” he muttered, looking skyward once more. Neither knowing or caring for the power of his words in silence, or their meaning. If there was a higher power it had forsaken him years ago. The rum in his flask was the only thing he trusted now, and the only reassurance he would need. He was scared, tired and reticent. But not repentant. He would never repent. Although, he knew in a few hours he would be dead. 

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