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She’d been the literary one, not him, better he remain true to his musical talents. Don’t worry, getting by, haven’t forgotten you. Can’t. Wouldn’t know how.
When I made the discovery little over a week ago, I was far too excited to think in such rational terms. I had been foolish, addicted. I see that now.
One kid keeps having a nightmare about drowning. She hears a sound like something crumbling and opens her eyes. Cracks spread across the walls and ceiling.
We come into this as helpless faucets of overflowing salt ducts, eager and scampering, exhausting profusely to make sense yet never availing, barely scratching.
This morning when Walter tumbled off a beribboned donkey halfway up the steep cobblestone path from the port to Fira he was embarrassed.
In the overgrown, ripening summer, four boys, elementary age, chase the day away. It is that magic hour, right after dinner, just before the dark comes and beds call.
The bar is dimly-lit yet I can still see his face laced with long, shoe-string tears.
She woke on the sand in the scorching daylight and tiptoed her fingers towards the gauze wrap of a woman dead beside her.
A descriptive flash piece built of 3-word phrases.
I want to stop and ask for an explanation, but that isn’t an option because gravity and target workout pace dictates when I can stop.
The old ways were coming back, too. Old tastes. Religion. Cigarettes. Casual racism, masturbation and chastity belts, and long, long fireside stories told on frigid winter nights.