AT 16½ WEST WATER STREET, Franklin leaned against the frame of an open window in his second floor apartment. He was watching the snow fall onto the city park below, a glass of Corby’s Whisky rested in his hand. At a nickel per bottle it was undrinkable to most — the kind of stuff that would twist your guts up in a knot — but for Franklin it did the trick just fine. The frigid winter air whistled past him, but he neither felt nor concerned himself with such sensations anymore. …

Tom Edwards

Writer, musician/producer, traveler, and marketing professional. Lover of the outdoors and floppy-eared dogs. www.planestrainsandbrokenstrings.com

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