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Binge: Day Four

On the fourth day, when the ice still hadn't worn off, Travis began to pace. He moved to the kitchen, from the kitchen, to the TV, watched it for a nanosecond, only the slightest hint of pause, and moved to the door. He stared out the eye hole, half clogged with spider webs for a fraction of a moment, seemingly taking in a world of activity, of movers and users and cogs in the proverbial machine of the city. After a while he came to find himself sitting, shuddering, the effects waning in his brain. And then he put another crystal in his pipe, grabbed his torch, and blasted off again. I'll write it this time, he thought. There's only a hundred and twenty seven words left...

On the fourth day, when the ice still hadn't worn off, Travis began to pace, from kitchen to television to door.

Story by:

Marcus Bertrand

20 February 2014