Storm Weaver

100 Word Story

Bells clanged as I exited the Pharmacy. Ice pellets and giant drops of cold rain pelted the cracked sidewalk and pinged off the metal canopy overhead. I shared the shelter with an old man who sat on a folding chair. His whiskered chin jut out. His lips caved in over toothless gums. His thick knuckled fingers worked a string through holes on an oily leather pouch. He peered inside like it held treasure.

“What’s that you got there?” I asked.

He looked up with grinning eyes then pulled the string taunt, closing the opening of the pouch.

The storm stopped.

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