Dave Wright Writes

Refuge in Dickens by Dave Wright A cool sun hung low in the March sky. It attempted, unsuccessfully, to warm Tom Blankley as he trudged home from the Twisted Taco , his place of dull and uninspiring employment for the past three years. Tom kicked a stone off the sidewalk. He wanted to become a writer, but he was stuck spending hours in a restaurant that smelled of beans and hot sauce. Maybe someday, he could afford a place of his own. He imagined a leisurely life of waking up late, sitting down at a solid-oak desk, cranking out a few pages of mesmerizing prose, and counting his royalties each night before bed. But for now, he was reasonably content. The apartment he shared with Camille was a little over a mile away. Camille was a redhead—an unusual departure from Tom’s standard fare of blondes and brunettes. He appreciated her caring attitude, but it came with a fiery disposition. Tom anticipated arriving home to the apartment’s tinkling heat register and Camille’s warm embrace.