“Prodigal” was originally written ten years ago. On a recent revisit back to 小小的太阳 I realised the beginning scenes depicted exactly what I had in mind.. how uncanny. The prose was edited to give it a more crisp tone and then presented to several close friends as parting gifts.
The mug warm in his hands
He raised it and drank –
A mouth of the dark brew
Unharried, alone.
Lifting his eyes in a glance
The trees bare and laden white –
Not a sight of warmth
But I’ll have to get going yet.
Looked down to the table –
Lit cigarette wasting, sandwich half-eaten
Fingering the ticket lovingly
For just a moment, a hesitation.
Breaking off, he pulled up the collar
Picked up his bag and stood at the door
Stepping off the ledge, he never turned back
On the journey back, home.
Awl and Scribe 