White Light

The televison flikered and the picture
rolled over in electronic cheapness.
was on the edge of his bed the
light was images from the wooden cube

Frank was totaling up the sum of his life in the tiny motel room off the interstate. He concluded the only thing you can do is leave a line in the sand.

Frank knew he drew one; not much of one and like all things human his mark would vanish as soon as he stepped in the soft, white light.

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