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His trouser leg ripped free of my fingers, yanked my arm out straight and I went face first into the moss. I covered my head but he didn’t kick me, why did that bastard always run? I slipped through the mud and I pulled myself up on the fallen tree. Barely on a trail now,
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I’d found a quiet spot away from the afterwork drinkers and browsed the menu for something to read. I don’t like to be on my phone too much, it feels like an addiction. I heard the other day that people in tech don’t let their kids have them as they know the damage they cause.
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Running his finger through the thorny shrubs, the tiny scratches are welcome to Craig’s pale skin. The plants are poking over ancient brick walls, overflowing from the tastefully unkempt gardens of terraced period properties. The mild pain gives Craig a thrill, reminding him that he is alive in the free world. This can’t be the
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Ryan Pilot 