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Hound of Winter

Jon Nichols

Copyright 2012 by Jon Nichols

Smashwords Edition

Hound of Winter


Jon Nichols

I am a cliché. So is she.

Funny thing about clichés. They exist because there’s truth to them.

They are the things we see everywhere. That’s why they become tedious and trite. That’s why they bore us like tomes of tax laws or bland bowls of oatmeal. But there really are “damaged tough guys on the edge.” There really are “whores with hearts of gold.”

It’s about 11:05 on a Chicago winter’s night. I’m in a bar writing all this down, just so I can get it out (there’s another cliché. I told you they’re everywhere. Might as well’ve started this out with “it was a dark and stormy night.”) The house band went on about five minutes ago and this paper already smells like a beer. I reach for my glass, but it’s empty. I light up a smoke instead.

The fake chemical smell of perfume hits my nose. From the corner of my left eye, I see a woman take the stool. She leans against the bar, watching the band play but keeping her body open to me. The bar lights are dim but I notice blonde curls on bare shoulders and a black strapless dress. She reminds of an actress I saw in a porno movie once during deployment.

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