Isolated iron is always cold. Always. Even on the hottest of summer days, heat radiating off the harsh metal, the sight of iron fills one's self with a cold darkness that captivates the imagination of some and fills another with desolate despair.
That was what filled his mind as he felt that painful heat through his work gloves, handling the huge iron beam thirty some odd stories above Earth's surface.
The pen always held such a warm and passionate feeling pinched between the fingers. A universe of knowledge, passion, longing, lust, despair, and sadness she thought as she tried to push the keys on her laptop down in rhythmic fashion.
She couldn't find the words or passion or even a glimpse of that universe she longed for.
The philosopher in both of them begins to question why they are doing anything they do. The reasonable voice knows they'll die if they don't - or at least be forced to find a new way to survive.
He takes the long drink of ice water, symbolic of the end of another torturous day of ten hours worth of heat - he had to sign on for that overtime pay.
The pay was great. The pay is great. The week is almost over and the pay is great - the chant repeated in his mind.
She held in her hand, between her fingertips, that old Montblanc pen she bought herself after her first big story broke. She hadn't used it for years but believed it was the key to her next big ticket. Of course, the doodles on her page didn't translate to her next big paycheck.
Before arriving home, he stops at a local liquor store to buy the beer that will get him drunk the fastest and for the least amount of money. A necessity, he thinks, if he is to endure such coldness again tomorrow.
He rolls a joint before leaving the parking lot - this to prepare himself for all the commands of his wife once home. He takes the first hit not long after he leaves the parking lot. The first of many.
A page full of doodles lay upon the page as she brushes her teeth in an attempt to hide the smell of cigarettes. Frantically, she sprays perfume and flushes the toilet to dispose of the butt. A deep breathe fills the empty space and a tug to straighten her shirt sets her in motion to start dinner.
She peers down into the empty sink and realizes she forgot to lay out the meat for dinner. Knowing it is too late to thaw now, she hits the number three on speed dial for takeout Chinese. A distinctly American voice answers and she realizes her mistake - Chinese was four, three was the stress relief she was trying to give up.
He arrives home significantly more stoned that he wanted to be. Trying desperately hard to hide it from his wife, he yells his hell while walking directly to the shower.
The shower loses him for far too long and his wife opens the door with hushed anxiety. "Are you drunk or high?"
"Both," he answers while his wife shuts the door without a word more.
She springs to life when the door rings - perfect timing, she thinks as she ponders where she wants her story to go next.
He gets out of the shower and sees a notepad open upon the table, full of drawings and no words, next to a bag of Chinese food. She is in the garage speed dialing number three.
-Dustin S. Stover
Kindle: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
Nook: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
That was what filled his mind as he felt that painful heat through his work gloves, handling the huge iron beam thirty some odd stories above Earth's surface.
The pen always held such a warm and passionate feeling pinched between the fingers. A universe of knowledge, passion, longing, lust, despair, and sadness she thought as she tried to push the keys on her laptop down in rhythmic fashion.
She couldn't find the words or passion or even a glimpse of that universe she longed for.
The philosopher in both of them begins to question why they are doing anything they do. The reasonable voice knows they'll die if they don't - or at least be forced to find a new way to survive.
He takes the long drink of ice water, symbolic of the end of another torturous day of ten hours worth of heat - he had to sign on for that overtime pay.
The pay was great. The pay is great. The week is almost over and the pay is great - the chant repeated in his mind.
She held in her hand, between her fingertips, that old Montblanc pen she bought herself after her first big story broke. She hadn't used it for years but believed it was the key to her next big ticket. Of course, the doodles on her page didn't translate to her next big paycheck.
Before arriving home, he stops at a local liquor store to buy the beer that will get him drunk the fastest and for the least amount of money. A necessity, he thinks, if he is to endure such coldness again tomorrow.
He rolls a joint before leaving the parking lot - this to prepare himself for all the commands of his wife once home. He takes the first hit not long after he leaves the parking lot. The first of many.
A page full of doodles lay upon the page as she brushes her teeth in an attempt to hide the smell of cigarettes. Frantically, she sprays perfume and flushes the toilet to dispose of the butt. A deep breathe fills the empty space and a tug to straighten her shirt sets her in motion to start dinner.
She peers down into the empty sink and realizes she forgot to lay out the meat for dinner. Knowing it is too late to thaw now, she hits the number three on speed dial for takeout Chinese. A distinctly American voice answers and she realizes her mistake - Chinese was four, three was the stress relief she was trying to give up.
He arrives home significantly more stoned that he wanted to be. Trying desperately hard to hide it from his wife, he yells his hell while walking directly to the shower.
The shower loses him for far too long and his wife opens the door with hushed anxiety. "Are you drunk or high?"
"Both," he answers while his wife shuts the door without a word more.
She springs to life when the door rings - perfect timing, she thinks as she ponders where she wants her story to go next.
He gets out of the shower and sees a notepad open upon the table, full of drawings and no words, next to a bag of Chinese food. She is in the garage speed dialing number three.
-Dustin S. Stover
Kindle: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
Nook: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
