The air was industrial, bruised, like water washed in oil, breath filtered through dirt and hung out to dry, a speckled white sheet upon which the city wiped its wet fingers. The bare whistled moan of a morning transit train crossing Morris was wrapped in the soft fog of dawn, the colored day muted to gray, padded to silence. On the eastern hills, life as blood-crimson sunlight leaked along the ridgeline and dripped down craggy slopes to pool on the valley floor.
First Lines Contest 2017: A Game Called Dead
The First Lines Contest 2017 is closed. Please submit your vote in the current year.