The pale sun hangs in the sky, it’s touch lukewarm beneath the forever-biting winds. Drip. The queue shuffles forward – I always try to look only at the footprints ahead. Drip. The queue shuffles forward – for a single moment spent beneath the dripping faucet. If you’re wise you’ll have a rag. Or a sponge. Drip. The queue shuffles forward.
You must look either at the dust or the skies. You must never look ahead. Never look up at them, at your betters. They who can afford to give such wealth away.
Don’t look up at them, just whisper your thanks. Hold your rag beneath the dribble.
Just a quick piece for Friday Fictioneers. I didn’t realise it was the weekend already… I’ve gotta get back into writing more flash! Comments and criticism welcome as always!