Alan Kwiatkowski

The inner prize

The cold stung his eyes as he shouldered the porch door open. He stopped for a moment to listen to the stillness of the morning, not a soul was moving nor dogs barking. Every morning Arthur would make the trek from the house to his paper-box gathering the morning news for his route. Crunch, crunch went the crusted snow almost echoing off the sleeping houses with their chimneys pumping out a fog keeping everyone warm. Another delivery another day, Art was thinking of Saturday, collection day when his customers would pay him for his labor....hopefully.