Snapshot!
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Writing - Flash Fiction
Posted 9.25.2015 8:45:02 PM

The autumn wind was cool and wet as it plowed through the brittle leaves of the oak trees. A hard rain had developed slowly from an earlier mild drizzle and in the pale glow of the street lamps the rain cloaked the air like heavy fog.

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Posted 9.17.2003

Tattered plaid pants and a beige short sleeve button up shirt, he entered the train without ever looking up. He had the shoes of a boy who detested Christmas with his family and he hadn’t cared to cut his hair in quite some time. The five o’clock shadow that accompanied his face was undiminished, even in the sunlight, making the boy appear overtly thin, his soul as tattered as his pants. He was reading Tom Robins and no doubt placing his own tired sloping figure next to the girl in cowboy boots hitchhiking alongside a hot and dusty road, probably offering to carry her backpack while fixing his eyes to her smile as if it were the last smile he’d ever see.

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Posted 9.16.2003

The dress hangs from a hanger and the hanger hangs from a hook in the center of the wall. The dress, stark white against the yellowed wallpaper, looks cool and crisp and full of promise.

The bride stands barefoot in front of the white dress and looks upon it with her brow stitched curiously. She stands there alone upon a slivered and slanted wooden floor, tilting her head slowly to the right and then slowly to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of a different angle of the dress, and of her life. The bride’s glance falls as she walks to the open window and sits upon its ledge, the chipped paint snagging her silky slip as she adjusts her thighs to balance her weight. She looks out onto the ocean, contemplating its vast dark motion and all of the mystery it holds. The ocean, she decides, is very much like love, full of balance and passion, mystery and peace. Neither can be contained.

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Posted 9.15.2003

Rolling blackness settles like a fog upon the buildings. The power lines to our lives have been severed and we are left with aimless direction. The night is thick and heavy and the silence has never been so conclusive. The air is spread with heat and the heat has a pulse in the dark. I can feel it dancing over my bare skin and stuffing itself down my throat, filling my lungs. In a place that is always alive I feel as though I’ve regressed into my mother’s womb with the sudden stillness of the city. It is calming and raw and I know that it will be stolen from me with an electrical spark.

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Posted 9.14.2003




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