The desert tilts on its axis as he rolls himself onto his back. He can feel the hot sand plastered to his dry lips and drier tongue. A searching hand finds a bottle. The bourbon wreaks burning havoc on his palette and he comes up spluttering. An automatic lying in the sand between his legs. He picks it up and pings off a shot at the birds gathered ominously on the sign by the road. Squawking fury as they explode into flight. Not one of them hit but the sign has a new bullet hole in it. He checks his watch. Late for work.
Paddy Dobson
10th September 2021