The Gull and The Stone

Flash Fiction

Not quite awake, he leaned on the railing at the edge of the river.

The lodging was a perk of a trip for a job that was a chore, leeching him of joy.

He was fourteen days smoke free and four days booze free unless you counted the one on the plane, which he didn’t because nothing counted at five hundred and ten miles per hour seven miles above sea level.

Nothing much counted anyway.

Along the yards on the riverfront were flag poles and grills and a volleyball net. It was too early yet for normal people. If they owned boats, they were obviously moored on larger waterways.

He heard the skritch of a sliding door in the home next door and flinched.