Under the Glass


It was snowing again, Geoff mused as he walked out to his car, feet sinking deep, crunching with each step. It was always snowing, the sky a flurry of frigid white. Cars, roofs, roads – everything is coated in a layer of fresh powder.

The moment anybody starts to think about how it’s always snowing, he finds himself forgetting. Just as he forgets thinking about how they’ve never gone beyond the city limits and how he forgets the moments when the clouds part and he glimpses the vast eye watching: blood vessels like rivers of red, pupil like a black hole.

Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Sarah Potter for providing the prompt photo! 

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