Shot Clocks

by Jason Spicer
clockA man was shot, in the alley behind my grungy apartment last night, again. His bald pate bounced a stream of pleated light through the blinds on my second story window. No sirens or news crews, just muddy boots and forlorn faces—men who needed sleep, in uniforms that looked slept in. Knowing head nods from the neighbors, silently trudging out the door to work, the stale air drains the color from their eyes. Everyone who lives here has grey eyes except me. The dead man fell funny, his limbs bent awkward, face down in the mud of two-day old rain. In some places rain cleanses, but not here—here rain only creates mud for worn out people to trudge through, and dead guys to fall in. Nostrils filled with foul brown grit, tongue coated and sticky. My eyes become a shade closer to grey each time it happens, like clockwork.


Category: SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing, SNHU Student