It was a black and white photograph that drew me back to this town, one that had seen better days, mirroring the photograph taken at random on a night out with friends, who some became lovers, of all now, except for me, are either dead, or long since found out the hard way that we are the children whose parents were the product of meaningless catchphrases or suffocating intoxicants designed to blot out us of their forged, forgotten dreams.
Tag Archives: stories by Ian D. Hall
When The Devil Closes Your Eyes.
1.
The air is cold and damp. It seeps though the pores of my skin and rushes in like its being chased by the Devil, ice-filled flames and stuffed down my throat with arctic weathered pitchforks as I breathed in and out; struggling to make the clouds of steam warm my hands when I blow on them as I walk the streets of a city I had last visited, on a purely pleasurable basis, some five years before.