Uncle spent a considerable time fiddling
with the recalcitrant tyre. While I grilled in
the backseat, Mr Steinberg dozed fitfully.
Moshe held his phone high in the air,
struggling to get a signal. He looked like
a desperate clown. Inevitably, William was
hungry. There were only fruit lozenges to
suck. Not another soul passed us on the
road. It was eerie, creepy, terrifying, to
think of this immense wilderness pressing
in on us. We were such insignificant specks.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist

179 thoughts on “Specks”

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