Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones Vagabonds Vol. 3 | Page 21

Snowflake
Joseph Carro
The sallow man squints up into charcoal sky, breath curling from
his cracked lips and rising into nothingness. Snowflakes, large and
crystalline, lilt along on cold bursts of air before coming to rest on his
eyelashes. He doesn’t blink.
He takes in a deep breath, the cold air rolling past his teeth and
over his tongue like ice water. He shuts his eyes, feeling the flakes collide
with his skin, hearing their light pattering on the fabric of his winter jacket
as all around him the world is blanketed in silence and white.
His bottom lip quivers. A tear rolls down his cheek from the corner
of his left eye, sinking somewhere into the collar of his sweater, leaving a
whip of cold on his face. Light, pathetic sobs escape his lungs as his frame
shakes.
He feels the weight in his front right jacket pocket, the metal
absorbing the cold air and growing colder with each passing moment. He
doesn’t bother wiping his eyes. His vision blurred, the street lamp above
becomes fuzzy-bright.
His face is curled up, his breathing and sobbing becoming more
erratic. Hyperventilating. He doesn’t recall ever crying like this. He has no
control of the long release of anguish coming from his diaphragm in
broken bleats.
In his pocket his thumb finds the hammer and he shakily flicks it
back.
“Hey, man,” comes a woman’s voice from behind. He almost
doesn’t hear it. “You got a light?”
The man, still sobbing, let’s go of the gun in his pocket and tries to
wipe the tears and snot from his face before turning. Rather than reply, he
simply shakes his head.
“No worries, not too many people smoke around here anymore.
Figured I’d ask.”
Silence, aside from some nose sniffling.
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