Thought I’d take another go at the Fifty, a form of writing I’ve come to like. (A Fifty is a one shot story or poem, or what-have-you, that consists of fifty words, for those who did not know.) Hope you enjoy.
He walked, melancholy down the cracked grey sidewalks and empty streets, past bent and broken yield signs.
His eyes empty like that of a ghost, inside that tattered brown ensemble.
Walking as if he was invisible, and he was, to everyone but me. It was, the lily in his hand.