Shawshank

As most Saturdays began, Shawshank woke up with a heavy thirst and a mouth tasting like stale beer from the night before. He’d found a few bottles of the stuff on one of his rounds a few weeks back. It was stale

BreatheBreatheBreatheBreathe
“Frankie? Frankie, answer me.”
Sirens were the symphony I remember. Sirens and yelling and the scream of metal on metal. They say that you cannot have smoke without a fire but that