256 Words

Skipping Stones

Glynn Sharpe

He was awake before the sparrows began to sing outside his window. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could see his clothes slung over the bedside chair. His fedora was perched on the chairs outstretched arm. It would soon be on his head. He was going home today. Back to Hay Bay and the water that he loved.

He leapt from the bed. He wrestled briefly with his pants and shirt before stepping into his shoes. He flicked on the lamp and snatched his hat from the chair. He placed it firmly onto his head and, checking the mirror, examined his face. He was in need of a shave, but that could wait until he got home. He turned off the light. He could almost smell and taste the water.

She jumped when she saw him. He drifted by her as quietly as a moth, his feet gliding over the white tiled floor. She closed the window on the game of Solitaire she was playing and watched him. He fumbled with the locked door. He tried it again. The red light from the EXIT sign above him cascaded over his hunched shoulders. The orange t-shirt he was wearing was much too large. It almost obscured the diaper he was wearing. The word WANDERER, written in bold black letters, was on both sides of the shirt.

She opened the desk drawer and picked out a roll of Lifesavers. She could always coax him back to bed with the yellow ones. They were as bright as the sun.

Copyright ©2001 Glynn Sharpe. All Rights Reserved.

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November, 2001
Issue #67

256 Words