Fiction
Oil DownBy Brian Silverman
His eyes, cloudy and red rimmed, opened just enough to notice the pint bottle of rum next to where he slept. He was lying on a piece of cardboard that was not big enough to prevent his scabbed shoulders from being coated with sand. The beach was just a few paces away. This was one of several sleeping locations he was comfortable with. It was quiet here at night. The police didn’t bother him. No one came to this part of the beach. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and rubbed a long-nailed finger around what was left of his teeth. He looked again at the pint bottle. Was it there before he fell asleep? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much anymore. He opened the full bottle and inhaled through his nose. And then he looked up at the dark
