Prose

He stares mournfully out the window, rain dashing against the pane creating a somewhat fitting cliché. The weight of the world rests on his shoulders forcing his head to lull below them. He turns his back to the room, barely lit by the dimmed bulb in the corner, and walks to the table. In front rests the source of his woes, a culmination of toil and despair. His hand rattles with trepidation as it reaches for the pen, his heart says no but his head says yes. The teeth grit, the muscles tense, the beads of sweat form on his brow as the pen is lowered to the page. It's done. He stands and turns to the window, turning his back on his actions. As a solitary tear runs down his face the "England 0-0 Algeria" scoreline on the wall-chart flickers in the lamplight.