It’s cold.
Bitter. The kind of cold that, no matter how many cigarettes you smoke, shots of whiskey you down, or logs you burn on the fire, everything still hurts. It's always cold. My fingertips lost all feeling a long while ago. I’m well acquainted with how my breath looks before my nose, how it escapes my lungs when I step outside like a punch to the gut. I don’t know how long it’s been like this, how long the winds have carried the snow. How long ago the world simply stopped. When the sun went away. You lose sense of time after the sun stops showing up. The clouds are too thick. I pretend every day is Saturday. Just to keep a smile on my face.
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AuthorA collection of short stories and flash fiction pieces. These original tales are the property of Alycia Davidson 2017-2023. This section of my site is rarely used now as I tend to post more short stories on my Patreon. Archives
July 2023
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