Restored Goods (1)
Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?
"03-21-17 I'm nothing but damaged goods. Shards of a person left scattered on the ground just waiting for some poor soul to come walking barefoot across the floor." [anonymous]
I walk slowly, nothing covering myself but down and a feeling of lack and loss.
Suddenly my foot strikes a brittle shell, something like a fragment of a smashed ceramic vase that once held fragrant and lovely flowers. It skids a few feet and is stopped by the crumbs and dust of more ceramic wreckage, and I gradually realize that this is the theater of an attack, some kind of sabotage or senseless violent rage that happened a while earlier, for there are clusters of ordinary house dust leaning against piles of reflective and very sharp shards. A heavy boot print is visible in one of the sandlike tufts of wreckage, as if someone had ground larger bits underfoot.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
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