Stephen Jones

The Stone and The Traveler

The night was dense with the musk of the sound. The scent of which filled the nostrils and choked the hopeful. Alone, amongst a group of strangers, shrouded by the smoke of cigarettes ignored stories and fabrications, a lone Stone shone bright. The light of the moon cascading down her twisted bounty: Side eye glances pierced the armor of the a traveler stuck in the time. That one glance eliminated all the questions that surrounded the traveler: he no longer consumed the by the night, He was enamored by her atmosphere. The whiskey blurred his mind, yet his vision was crystal clear.