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Friday, July 22, 2005

Fiction

I protested that I liked the window down, the rush of the humid air on my forehead, but my stepmother's finger was already on the control and with her steady silent suction the wind was gone.

Exactly then the violins paused in their scrambling and for one suspended moment it seemed that she had sealed even the music outside, leaving me with only the smell of stale pine and old cigarettes.

1 Comments:

Blogger Unsane said...

very good writing. Keep it up.

10:30 AM  

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