by Thom Gabrukiewicz
He rubs the still-supple fleshiness of his upper arms, trying desperately to turn friction into heat. His fingers are beginning to harden and with the transformation, turn white like alabaster. It’s like sliding icicles across partially frozen chicken breasts. He tries to jump up and down, but feels a stiffness begin to settle upon his limbs – which isn’t at all painful, just creepy - so he stops and instead hugs his arms to his chest. No matter what, the coolness continues. “So this is death,” he says.
Thom Gabrukiewicz is a writer stuck out on the nation's vast prairie, hoping one day to make the switch from journalist to Writer, with a capital W.