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Vultures

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I walk along a back path to the bar and a group of large dark birds rise from the woods and circle above me.

"I'm not dead yet," I think. Their swirling creeps me out, makes me feel vulnerable and small. Maybe they can feel how bad things are, and know how close the end is for me.

I walk down the railroad tracks. Clomp clomp clomp-clomp ... with an awkward stride that is regulated by the distance between ties and not by my natural stride. I think about drinking until I'm numb and catching a train later. I start to cry. "Dry it up, you don't want the vultures to see you bleed," I tell myself.

"Wanna beer?" says Rick as I sit down.

"Wanna drink, Wanna beer, Wanna beer?" goes the call of the circling men at the bar.

They're like vultures. They can sense my poverty and despair.

Published 
Written by fallingdove
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