You ain't ever gonna serve these, the man yelled, tossing the cones into the trash. Rain pelted them. The cones were made for ice cream and now, would be denied. They tried to look tough, but the precipitation made them slowly fall down and pool into small, ruddy puddles of what was once crunchiness. Bastards, that was the cones last collective word.
Photo - S
Words - S
No comments:
Post a Comment