“The bag was my favorite color, maroon on the edge of the bed in the curtained room,” a view most prominent as she fiddled with condiments,

riddled by the comment, her friend, broke from the feeds, table glaze kissing the screen

she crossed her legs, elbows to wood, knuckles to jaw

and she listened, in awe


Eyes avoiding capture, she offered, “I plucked tissue paper like eager petals, so easy, to find the cerulean blue dress, it’s a, a beautiful hue…”

“Beautiful for you?”

“I thought it could’ve been,” she grinned, in memory of him standing quietly, smiling, “He said it was for me,” she shrugged, “A gift. Why not accept it?”

“Why can’t he accept-”


“Janet…,” she inhaled, she paced, wrestled for her place, “it was my size. It was going to suit me just fine, I knew, slipping into that cerulean blue…”

“As if it’d be the truth,” her friend, cooed.

Glaring at Janet, flamed iris smoldering around granite, “I didn’t bother to look in the mirror but I smeared on another layer, that shade, chill slayer, maybe if my lips were plumper, like…”

She bent, elbows to knees, palms to cheek, tips to temples, flames liquefying through clumped lashes,

“He said nothing for so long. He told me ‘take it off’ and I thought I’d finally won but he walked out, left me, I can still hear the car keys,” chapped lips quivering

“Ronnie,” Janet said, sliding over, hand to thigh, other to shoulder

She glanced up as Janet’s fingers pressed firmer,

with infliction that smothered, her true friend told her

“You shouldn’t want to be the ghost of his former lover.”

-B. Brown


why are the shorter stories harder to shape? does anyone have any tips?


(image courtesy of Pinterest, although if anyone knows the artist, please tell me. This is gorgeous)



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