Tool’s face was marked by a port-wine-stain birthmark, which left a chip on his shoulder.
His temperament with reality was thinning like his hair.
To draw attention away from his face, he wore loud clothes — crushed red velvet pants, blue suede shoes, and silk shirts were unbuttoned to expose the hair on his chest.
In a fit of rage, he stole my library card, checked out two dozen rare and expensive books, and hid them beneath his bed.
“No one steals a library card!” the librarian shook, filled with skepticism.
About the Creator
Arlo Hennings
Author of 2 non-fiction books, composer of 4 albums, expat, father, MFA (Creative Writing), B.A.
Keep reading
More stories from Arlo Hennings and writers in Fiction and other communities.
A Love Forboding
The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
By James U. Rizzi3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
such a great writer
Thanks Alex!! Greatly appreciated!!
Good story!