By: Christopher Bice
I left home at fifteen searching for fame and fortune. Hopping a boxcar my mind dreamed of big city lights and someday, maybe a wife. We'd live in a small bungalow surrounded by a white picket fence. She'd wear that pretty yellow frock and I'd come home from work carrying her favorite flowers.
But tonight, as I walked up that sidewalk and reached for that red painted door, Death caught up to me. Peering through the windows, of my soul, I saw my wife for the last time. Tonight, I died alone in that cold boxcar traveling rails leading nowhere.