He left two trails behind him as he stumbled through the flat white. The first was made by his footprints, slow and weaving as a drunkard’s, holes punched one after the other by heavy boots. The second was bright red: splattered blood, growing thicker with each step, dripping from the gaping wound in his side.
This is for Three Line Tales 305. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Jo L’Helvète for providing the photo prompt.
Leave a Reply