all in

I started a short story a couple years ago about a friend of mine who was addicted to playing poker. I really liked where it was going, and had some really awesome moments in it, but in the recent reset of my computer, I inexplicably lost the document. I'm taking a short story class this semester, and was hoping to improve upon what I had already produced, but now it appears I have to start over again. What I have written so far is below. I know it's not much, but I only just began yesterday.

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All In

It’s cold. I’m not, however, surprised by this, and I’ve come prepared for the harshness of the dark winter air. The woolen knit cap affixed to my head rests slightly tilted to one side as it infuriates my scalp. My coat is fur lined and exceptionally warm in any weather, and in evidence of this, tiny beads of salty sweat begin to stain my shirt at the pits. This isolated stretch of land, this solitary stump amidst too much flatness is always cold whenever I come to it.
The walk to the front door is a long one, with many chances to turn away. Many chances to turn away, but far more chances to keep going. The grass along the side of the concrete path is short and brown. Not the kind that couples sit on in Spring. Not a place you’d find children playing, or men and women together enjoying a bottle of merlot. This is no one’s home. And yet…
The building is a depressed brown. No windows let passersby see in or allow lonely occupants to see out. There are no words on the lightless marquee, and the only source of light, two florescent bulbs dangling by a socket on either side of the large front door, flicker as they sway slightly in the enveloping frigidity.
This is no one’s home, and yet here I am again. The lost souls inside were there yesterday, and the day before, and they’ll be there tomorrow and the day after. This is not home, but it resembles something similar. The men and women beyond the metal double doors are not my relatives, and they are not my friends, but they are my brothers and sisters in arms, fighting for their dreams of tomorrow. Not fighting with guns and bombs, but with clubs, and diamonds, and hearts, and spades.


More to come as I write more.