Work Title

Cabbage Stew


William Griffith


I pulled my left arm from beneath the warm pile of blankets and coverlets. With small forefinger I touched the crystalline sheet of ice that covered the small window above my bed. The contact was strange: along my arm the minute, pale hairs rose with the goose pimples; a queer trembling passed through my body; my small bed trembled; and the hairs on my head seemed to want to pull from their roots. I quickly put my arm back under the comforting warmth of the blankets and pressed my nose into the pillow...



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