the king's shilling

The King's Shilling

Expectant of something long forgotten, they wait. Chins rest on chest, vacant television eyes, gaping mouthed snores, their minds drift and bob like the peas in yesterday’s soup. They wait for bed, they wait to get up, they wait for the visiting relation they can’t quite place, they wait for the silent ambulance. In a quiet corner of Hawthorn Vale’s musty lounge George waits for eight o’ clock. Tonight George will check out for good.

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