Hurry Hard

Jorge breaks into the club up the street from his house every other night, using his father’s old lockpicks.  Empty, the place feels full of ghosts: the smell of smoke in the walls, the dust of a hundred years of conversation.  Sound doesn’t travel very far until he gets on the ice.

He brings clean shoes and duct tape and a broom from the workshed, and he curls for hours.  He plays himself, eyeing his shots instead of chasing a skip’s broom, sweeping his own rocks.

His voice echoes through the haunted old club: “Hurry,” he tells himself.  “Hurry hard.”

One Response to “Hurry Hard”

  1. Ow. Owww. This one hurts my heart.

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