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Submitted to Contest #224
“I can’t sleep”. Janie whispers across to the twin bed next to hers. The pile of dark curls seeping out the top of the black and white checkered bedspread stirs but doesn’t wake. “PSSST.” Janie hisses more urgently. The curl pile sighs, pauses, then reluctantly turns over. Her sleep mask with giant painted eyes is still on. She leaves it on as they talk. “Yes, Janie. What is it now?” “I was- well- I just can’t stop thinking about the Moorean Viviparous Tree Snail.” MJ pulls up her sleep ma...
Submitted to Contest #223
Entry #43 It is not ideal to type with a severely bandaged pontier- ughh, pointre- POINTER finger. Especially when they’ve decided to have us all use typewriters this semester. Ya know, for the experience. To build character. I think it’s a waste of time and paper and the “experience” is lost on most of these bozos. It’s our last year at Clown Academy after all, what’re they expecting? No one here is ever going to measure up to Boop De Boise, no matter how much patience and discipline it takes to type-write a ten page paper o...
Submitted to Contest #222
She opens the door to her building and starts quickly up the steep, narrow stairs of her fourth floor walk-up. The first floor wreaks of garbage as always. The second smells of heavenly spices and garlic and home. She whips around the third bannister and the familiar smell of weed wafts over her, instinctively easing the tension in her shoulders before the last flight and then she arrives. 4B. The apartment she’s lived in for the past four years. She frantically turns her key, leaving it dangling from the lock, door open. She throws her...
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