She dreamed of a kiss, too good to be true. Her fingers gripped the lapels of his jersey.
More moans… falling.
Her eyes flew open, a delicious blush spread across her cheeks as she hit the ground. He was looking at her. The man of her dreams. How embarrassing.
“I want to be happy,” said the girl, looking tired with shoulders that sagged by some unknown weight.
“Cry, first you have to cry,” said the old man.
Her voice shook, “but how do I cry?”
“Just let it flow,” he replied.
And she did. She had wanted to cry for a very long time.
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She is a bear, huddled in her blankets all covered. Her hair splayed across the pillows, eyes closed. The chill could not touch her. The rain endlessly pouring, visible through the curtains. She smells it—and sleeps on. Shoots spring from moistened land as the sun rises, spreading warmth. And she awakens, stretching, welcoming spring.
[N.B] This time last year, it was unseasonable warm. Although I dislike immense heat, I do prefer it to be a little warmer–I miss being able to walk out with only a t-shirt on! (and pants of course!!!!) I probably wouldn’t mind winter so much if we actually had snow down here–that would be fun! (The novelty of it would exceed all negatives associated with it.) But no….down under only mountains get snow, flatlands get rain, rain, and more rain, which leads to mud, which leads to mud covered dogs, which leads to ten clothing changes in one day haha. Ah well! I’m looking forward to summer, and luckily, today is a nice cold but sunny day <3.
She opened the book, flipped the pages, breathed in the new book smell. Her eyes moistened, becoming shiny and overcome with emotion. There are no words she could use to express how she was feeling right now. All she knew were the words on the page: This is my story, and it starts with you.
The man was beaten, thrown down to the ground, sweat, blood, cut to the bone. His eyes rolled back, his life flashing before his eyes, and the world spinning out of his grasp. She’s looking at him. Fearful. Afraid. A lion roars in him, sends his blood raging. He surges upwards—one punch knockout win.
There were so many things she could do. She could punch him. She could yell at him. She could cry. She could beg him. But none of that was necessary. It was too late.
Looking him in the eyes, a woman of her own right, she said, “good bye.”
Gathering her bags, she walked out.
[N.B.] Wow. It has seriously been a long time since I’ve written a 55 fiction story. But it looks like I might just be writing some more now! I sure as hell missed writing them.
The act of writing a story, 55 words long, creating a character and a setting, three lines wide. It’s a story about love, hate, murder, mystery, with “I” or “Me” or “You” or “they”, it’s a moment of inspiration, a moment of vividness. It’s a 55 word story, fresh, brief, capturing. Be enticed by it.