Pretty Little Writer

I had long grown accustomed to the light that shone off her face like mystic white porcelain when the darkness of night surrounded us that was not from the glow of candlelight but was rather produced by the screen of the laptop she balanced on top of her thighs.
As the steady tap-tap-tap of the keyboard under her pretty-but-agile little fingers lulled me nearly to sleep, I took in a deep, fulfilling breath and sighed with the pleasure of knowing that my beloved wasn’t just any woman – she was a writer.

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A Scent, a Memory

“How about this one?” Jeremy asked after spritzing the cologne onto a paper tab and holding it right up to my nostrils.
“No!” I shouted almost too immediately, thrusting his hand away, but my memory had already whisked me swiftly away back into Frederick’s strong arms that held me firmly but swayed me delicately back and forth, back and forth to the subtle music of the cold wind that rushed through the celadon fields of the Falklands in a way that made individual blades of grass take turns reflecting the sun’s iridescent light, and as we stood there on that rocky cliff overlooking the edge of eternity, tears clinging desperately to our cheeks but ultimately plummeting to their death, he begged me please oh please don’t go.

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Beautiful Distraction

As Abigail peered through the banisters at her older brother and his friends and listened to them discuss the latest technological breakthroughs in science and the most pressing current political dilemmas, she wondered why she hardly heard young ladies murmur words like those, but then she laid her eyes on one of her brother’s friends – standing there like Michaelangelo’s David, only broader, and with better posture, and muscles you could practically feel with your eyes and, speaking of eyes, his were constructed of cerulean velvet that matched the color of the sky just after the last sliver of sun has tucked itself under the horizon, leaving only the memory of daylight swirled around in a vast sea of everything that is mysterious about night. Abigail twirled a piece of hair around her finger, speculated as to whether or not this specimen of a man had seen her – noticed her – and then her heart took in a poisonous concoction of love, lust and adrenaline that sent her whirling with urgency back to her bedroom to divulge every last detail of the man she had just witnessed on her diary’s hungry, anticipating pages.

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He had struggled for months, offloading every aspect of his life into the many-tentacled monster, making sure that he had unburdened himself of every last vestige of his individuality.

At last, he had learned to love Facebook.

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