The Distant Joke

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 20:39:40 -

The Distant Joke

The fog rolls in from the harbor. It tastes of salt and old pennies. You are twelve. You are small. The city is a gray beast. It sleeps. It breathes. You run. Your shoes slap wet pavement. You do not look back. You cannot. To look back is to stop. To stop is to die. You are running from the clock. The clock in the town square. It ticks. It ticks louder than the waves. It ticks inside your...

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