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Jake Parker


He wiped his face in the late morning sun. The smell of his hands was repulsive and he winced. Cigarettes and booze. This ghost of a disconnected evening pushed him over to the shadowy side of his bed. Not again. Images of a respectable man, drunk and roaring around a pub, spat at his closed eyes. Lately he’d had a bad habit of exceeding limitations. God not again. Regret chuckled in the alcove of his sheets and shame tucked him in.

Taking a deep breath, he slothed out of bed in defiance. The day would not be wasted, and a shower would rid him of all this good-for-nothing self-pity.

The hot water turned on. The hot water turned off. He stomped out and dripped into his home office; dressing himself in proper attire. Deadlines pinged on his illuminated computer screen and his hands did not hold back from the clicking and the tapping. Productivity would not escape him today. He was an accomplished designer. His name was featured in reputable publications, and designer wannabes wrote theses on his work. He was, in short, the poster child of graphic design.

He ran his dewy hand through his combed hair. There it was. The ghostly scent. This time, he volunteered himself into the shadows of his desk chair, and remained like this for the rest of the day.


The red kiss on the boy’s cheek made his face look rosier than it already was. He rubbed it off, and his mum concealed her sadness.

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