Monday, February 21, 2011

Stories. 3 Sentences Each.

A Memoir...
She woke up late for Spanish. She didn’t brush her hair. Sunglasses are stuck on the top of her head while she’s standing on a trolley packed like Crayola crayons.

...

This city falls asleep when I can’t. I spread out against the deep blue streets, absorbed in the eerie silence of the early morning. As the night slips into day, I want for my deep blue blanket twisted with the sheets on the floor next to my bed.

Ignorance
Shit. I should have heeded my recycled coffee cup’s warning. Now, nothing tastes right.

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