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Weekly Contest #202
The cuticles of her left hand were creeks, meaty and flooded with blood and her right pointer finger dug into them time and time again. It was almost rhythmic, the pain, and Danny forgot it as her knee jammed itself over and over against the rickety airport chair. It was late enough in the night to be early morning and those around her who were awake had wells for eyes; deep and full of stories that had been melted down into dark, muted ink. In the distance a night shift janitor had fallen to his knees, scrubbing a dark spot on the floor tha...
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