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'Down, up, left, aaand right,' Mal said, tweaking, massaging the skin around its eye. It was cold to the touch now, but he could fix that, surely. He paused, frowning, hand quivering. 'Where the hell am I going wrong?' he sighed. 'Maybe I should give up on this one.' He sat back in the creaking chair and cupped his jaw, rasping dirty fingers against day-old stubble. Mal cast his bloodshot eyes to the crowded corner of the shack, a shrine to his multiple failures. A mocking smell haunted him and he wasn't sure whether it was just in his head, but it was the only thing that felt real right now. Just as old age had done, the cold morning crept up on him. A filthy slick had pooled in the gaps between collapsing cobblestones, but reflected there, for just a moment, he could see the naïve sky. He cracked his bent knuckles – pop pop pop – and turned again to his work. 'Do you see me yet, little princess?' he muttered, half coughing. His phlegm tasted metallic. He stroked its tranquil face. 'Wakey wakey.'

This my entry into the Fox Tales 15 sentence story contest. See here for more details if you wanna play along too.

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