Torch eats lunch without washing, always. The dirt is forever there, beneath the nails. It is permanent as a tattoo, broken across ten spaces from thumb to thumb. He has learned not to taste the oil and grease or tastes it and doesn't care. These aren't things he thinks about often.
For now, as Torch if found to do, he thinks of nothing. If anything, he thinks of the sandwich pinched between his fingers, the small bottle of water at the tip of his boot, the rotating sun, but only as it relates to the heat he must work in until quitting time.
The world around him is simply the world around him and he little more than a part of that world, no more or less important than the cutter that sits waiting to be fixed or the cloud crawling the sky in need of nothing.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
EARLY MORNING CLEO / July 29, '25 - 4:55 AM
So yeah I put the time on there because it's a ridiculous time of the day. But, also, I wanted to say, too, that my cat, my beautiful C...

-
I first read Rusty Barnes’ Mostly Redneck last year. My intentions were to write a review at that time, but, in all seriousness, I just...
-
Hi. I'm Sheldon, and I'm a television addict. Well, not really. I never watch television. Not exactly. The problem is I buy, bor...
-
Andrew Bowen is a thinker. A writer, an editor, a theologian, a philosopher, and did I mention one hell of a thinker. That's why I...
pretty.
ReplyDeleteshiny.
in my pocket now. i massage it's length with my thumb