The day arrived packaged in a.
The pinched sun was knotted up behind a bank of burnt cork cloud, high up at the apex of the celestial.
Lesser cumuli corrugated the sky like wrinkles.
God, the old consumptive, was obviously anxious to get his latest sequestration back home through the pearly gates and was gripping to the firmament just a mite too hard.
And then it broke, all Hell that is.
A jagged tear at the bottom where the sky kissed the concrete Babel, from which hailstones rehashed fromtoppled on to the sidewalk.
The divine short order chef dashing his eggs over easy.
Sunny side down.
Or perhaps, considering the alcoholic withdrawal that continually ram-raided the hole in my soul, maybe the hailstones were resonating more like popping corn inside mycranium.
Unhh, no need for an alarm clock with my finely altered biochemistry.
Marc Nash: Experimental UK writer, lover of language and imagery. Ex-playwright, now assaulting the novel form. Self-published "A,B&E" imminent. A scabrous mirror held up to my people. A love-hate "Dear John" letter.
Self-Publishing experience Blog: http://self-publishinguser.blogspot.com/