Fiction Friday from: https://rochellewisoff.com/2019/08/07/9-august-2019/
Acute in his wicker chair, a stalk of alfalfa held tense between his incisors, he stared. Slumping back he massaged his whiskers with a skeletal finger. The rusty taste of live wire, his nose twitched. It’d been a long time since he’d called a place…he hardly dared touch the word…yet. His mind drifted to that damp tunnel, the one with the asbestos drifts and the bits of tangled wire. A palace, and he: a king without a throne. He stared at the cracking drywall. “Boys”, he said in a voice of steel cut oats “we’re home”.