Sarah sat alone as the last dim bulb flickered above her, the fan squeaked with each solemn pass. She brought another spoonful of dry cornflakes to her lips and chewed, refusing to look up but feeling its gaze again.
“Go away, Timmy.”
“Mom says it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full.”
“I don’t care, Timmy.”
Sarah stared at the ground, tormented by the shadows gathering around her. She couldn’t look at them, couldn’t look at Timmy, or the milk carton she had left out for days. Timmy’s picture printed below the thick, bold letters ‘MISSING’ on its side.
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Tuesday, October 9th, 2012
“May I speak to Anton Heft, please,” requested the professional voice over the phone. Anton was finishing up another roof for Steve when the phone rang. He was in a filthy pair of ripped-up blue jeans that looked as though they’d been through several years worth of roof jobs. His filthy tank top was rolled and tied around his forehead like Jim McMahon’s headband. The combination of the dirt, humidity and roof tar smeared various shades of black and gray all over his body and clothes.
By Anton Mathias Heft 7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Wow, this was intense! Great writing!
Ohh very good…