Her waist wreathed in clouds,
again, she withholds the rain,
sharing not a drop.
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A Fleet's Night to Remember
It is the third rap on the door that Frederick Fleet is unable to ignore. It rings out through the near-empty flat with such nostalgia, a memory cutting through the ever-rumbling din of the trainyard that sits just across the street. It is a rhythm that, for a moment, he fails to consciously place; still, his body reacts, and turns over in his uncomfortable twin bed, back now towards the door. Frederick is ignoring him, as he was always want to do when he would wake him in the middle of the night: Ollie, the ruddy-faced, snaggle-toothed boy who wrongly assumed that family, foster or otherwise, means forever; Ollie, the younger brother that Frederick never in a million years asked for but always misses when he has even the smallest crumb of food to share; that is who he’s choosing to ignore. Him, and not the off chance that it’s really the wreck commissioner at his door, finally come to collect him for another day of testimony and inquisition. Frederick sucks his teeth in annoyance, tongue fiddling in the gap of a missing molar. And then, someone raps that rap at the door again, and Frederick is up.
By Alabaster Wynn4 years ago in Fiction
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