This week’s prompt: write something that can be read in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette.
Gram by gram they each add their weight. A little salt here. A little anger over there. A little blood here. A little sass over there. Each a perspective. Each a voice that never goes completely away.
Still, the old sea turtle swims. Never against the current, always wandering, always curious of the eyes. He knows the minute he stops is the minute everything starts making sense. He doesn’t want that. No living organism does. To find order in the middle of chaos is like finding one white man in a yellow raincoat slowly making his way through a flash mob of winter coats. Eyes are not on him until after the recording is analyzed.
The leaves stay green and the basketball dribbles on, making it hard to do a layup. Without…
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