The Whiskey Monologues

SUMMER

The single drop of water slid down his the flat universe of his cheek like an autumnal leaf falling from an aged oak, or a ballerina in a terribly sad ballet. It clung desperately to his chin before plummeting gracefully to the floor, where it shattered, glass-like, and sparkled as if it had become a thousand something diamonds. The droplet sunk into the cold grey concrete only to remind him of the cruel, evanescent nature of life.

“It’s raining”, he declared, to the gathering crowds of air and dust. He choked. “It’s-s rai-ning”.

The wind brushed his hair and he tilted his bitter grimace towards the desolate sun, which shone mockingly in the clear blue abyss of a fine summer’s day.

“It’s definitely raining”, he whispered, as another gentle tear fell feebly from his despondent eye onto the destitute universe of his cheek.

Submitted by earth is not a cold, dead place.