Writings of Andrew Schiestel


As the sun set

At sunset, Tom walked down the promenade. He approached the end and came to the other balustrade divided by the stairwell that enclosed the lightly littered sward where the mother dog raised her pups. He had, knowingly, a false anticipation that the mother dog and her last pup would be there. He wanted to see the mother with the pacific eyes, her pup teething at her belly, rolling playfully down the hill, bouncing at empty water bottles, and prancing around joyously with nothing but a banana peel in its mouth. But Tom knew it was wishful thinking. He approached the balustrade, gripped his hands on the rail, and peered over into the enclosure. There was nothing. The region lay bare of life. He stared at the area for some time. The water bottle, banana peel, and the black shawl that the pup once tugged away from behind the palm tree in the corner were absent too. The sun set on Tunisia as it always does. Another day was over.

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