Monday. Fiction. 58.
Monday’s pursuit of a story, in 58 words. It’s Fiction in 58.
Mail Call
The older he grew, the more dour he became. A darkening forest, like the tufts of bristled hair in his ears and the ever brushier eyebrows.
As if life heaped sand on his heart, which once beat precariously jubilant. Before the beat-downs, bad breaks, worse decisions.
“Chance,” he whispered, just before dropping the letter into the box.
Mail Call
The older he grew, the more dour he became. A darkening forest, like the tufts of bristled hair in his ears and the ever brushier eyebrows.
As if life heaped sand on his heart, which once beat precariously jubilant. Before the beat-downs, bad breaks, worse decisions.
“Chance,” he whispered, just before dropping the letter into the box.
Comments
I imagine it to be a letter to someone he loved and disconnected over the years, but that's me being romantic.