When she was feeling very stressed or overwhelmed she would imagine herself in a field; a simple field with wild flowers, and tall weeds that looked like wheat and had buds like a rattlers tail. It would be a soft blue day with wisps of clouds like a woman’s hair spread out seductively on a pillow, inviting her lover to touch just one strand. She could smell serenity and it was like wet dirt and heat the kind of heat that bakes bread or sweet muffins. Sometimes she could bury herself so deeply into the dream that nothing could shake her from it not even the stench of her brother’s apartment. It wasn’t the smell but the sound of a door slamming that pulled her out and left her alone in the mess, in his mess, he left over, his disease.
Short Story WritingA sketch book of ideas and incomplete stories.
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