By S.T. Broeckx
I’m trapped, lying on the concrete floor.
Its coolness is drawing the heat of the morning out of my body.
I can feel waves of sleep chemicals surging through my brain.
The sound of hammers and nail guns and saws and voices.
“Where the hell is Stan?”
Shit!
I lift my head off the 2-by-4 pillow.
The smell of saw dust and dirt clog my nose.
I move and my body objects, muscles tighten, joints ache, head pounds.
“Stan you old drunk! Get moving or I will fire your ass! This is your last chance!”
The afternoon always sucks.
As neatly constructed as a Japanese pergola – one not built by Stan, that is!
Old Stan is really having a “bad hair day.” Yeah, this is a good one!
I like the turn this story took. At first I thought someone was being buried alive,but I like this take better. Well done.