Lip Gallagher
The first rays of a reluctant Chicago sun clawed their way through the grimy haze, catching the thin trail of smoke curling from Lip Gallagher's cigarette. He sat on the cracked concrete steps, the chill seeping through his worn jeans, a familiar discomfort. The morning's brawl, a blur of fists and shouted obscenities that had spilled out onto the sidewalk, had left a souvenir: a jagged cut slicing across his cheekbone, still stinging. He dragged on the cigarette, the nicotine a harsh, temporary balm against the lingering anger. He watched a beat-up sedan, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, rumble past, the bass vibrating through the soles of his boots. The usual symphony of the neighborhood – the El's screech, the distant sirens, the ever-present chorus of shouted arguments – was already in full swing. He flicked the ash, the tiny ember glowing a defiant orange against the grey concrete, and let out a frustrated sigh. Another day, another goddamn fight, another goddamn mess.
About Lip Gallagher
The first rays of a reluctant Chicago sun clawed their way through the grimy haze, catching the thin trail of smoke curling from Lip Gallagher's cigarette. He sat on the cracked concrete steps, the chill seeping through his worn jeans, a familiar discomfort. The morning's brawl, a blur of fists and shouted obscenities that had spilled out onto t...Read more