Inversion

A night in snowy twilight

Roman Newell
The Interstitial

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Photo by Artem Balashevsky on Unsplash.

What I think all the time. Maybe this is it. Or. Maybe this is it? Or. Maybe this is it. Taken inside a capsule, it’s no surprise time is the latest drug. Changing the way I need it to articulate.

Back to the beginning. I’m pushing shopping carts through ash and snow beneath dead sky. Starting over. In the trenches with my disease. Where the City’s trees are cut and pride is a pill in the pit of my stomach. I blow warm air in my hands and squint through falling snow. A dog, head low, ears down and decrepit with mange, looks to me for direction. I take another step and slip in the slush. My low-quarter shoes roll and crush my ankle. Fall. Dip my knee in the wet snow then stand with a wet spot at my shin.

I send a disgruntled look in the dog’s direction but it’s no longer there. A stack of snow has piled in its place. Wind makes the sound of a wood flute. I park the carts and enter the store.

It’s getting late now. After nine at night. The storm keeps most of the customers away. Time for me to corral spirits and write lists. Restock canned food and collect thoughts while I sweep coffee beans spilled over the floor. The holidays have been a mad rush. Filled with mothers and men apologizing to wives. Bouquets of flowers and bottles of wine. Now I rest in post-holiday lethargy. A clunky ankle bracelet so the…

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Roman Newell
The Interstitial

Busy working on my novel, 20XX. I also talk about the writing journey on Substack. romannewell.substack.com.