George Anderson

“I’m sorry, I’m not cognizant of what I’m doing,” George Anderson said.
George quickly stepped to the right and chose the opposite escalator, extending his long arms to balance his domineering stature between the rolling rails that guided each passenger down the grated metal pathway.
When he moved, two noises resonated. There was the soft drum roll, sounding a lion’s purr fell from the worn corduroy of his beige jeans. His blue London Fog jacket made a flapping sound like a flag in the autumn wind. Together they orchestrated into a rifle-like eulogy of echoes from a firing squad’s good-bye.
He could feel the growth of a beard attached alongside his ears constructing a thinning gray and black layer George called, ‘cigarette ash.’ It looked as if it could be blown off his face, but never did. George felt old. George wished he’d die and too blow away like ash.

George Anderson

natespeak

Rimrock, United States

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