Sidney Cole

Sidney Cole was good with his hands.  Always had been.  As a kid he’d had a thing for Play-Doh.  The clay beneath his fingers, warm and pliable, willing to be pressed into any shape he wanted.  He used to work for hours at the table by his bedroom window, while the shadows from the metal bars of the fire escape grew deep and long and then began to fade again.

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About dborys

Author of STREET STORIES suspense novels View all posts by dborys

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