Matt leaned forward and squinted at the clock on the dashboard through red, hazy eyes, stinging with fatigue. The yellow digital numbers danced at him as he yawned; 4:00am. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and looked outside the window of the taxi.
Matt walked through the freshly painted red doorway, stooping as he entered. He breathed out the dry winter air and gave a harsh cough, brushed the snow off his jacket, and stood in the doorway.
“He is down this way, last cell on the left”, the officer slurred in a thick Parisian accent, as he gestured toward a row of prison cells. Matt followed curiously. They walked briskly down a long hallway, the iron bars shining darkly in the dim basement light. The officer was dressed in dark police blues, … More Paris
Matt squinted as he shielded his eyes from the snow, ice pick in hand. He had lifted his goggles to survey the climb ahead, but the world was a blur of white. Mount Everest seemed to climb ahead endlessly.
The door swings open and Mark stands in the doorway of the humid jungle bar, khaki clad, dabbing beads of sweat off his neck with a handkerchief. The jungle mist rolls past his feet, and the sound of insects invades the room, drowning out the beat of the fan.
StickyMangoRice 