Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

The girl took a step back from me, a hand creeping to her mouth.

“Umm, is that normal?” she asked, nodding toward the blood streaks running down the spears of grass.

Normal? I tried to connect anything to that word but nothing came to mind. Trying to think was exhausting. I was saved from responding by her dog pushing his nose into the wet grass and licking it.

“Alfie, no!” She yanked the dog away. Blood dotted its muzzle. My blood. It reminded me of something . . . nauseating. My stomach convulsed, filling my mouth with a burning jet of bile. I added that to my other fluids.

Shuddering, I tried to stand. It took me three tries before I was upright. Twice, the girl reached out as if to help me but she didn’t come any closer and when I stood on my own, relief shone in her face.

Everything hurt- calves, thighs and stomach more than anything else.

My feet itched and tingled as if they were sunburned. I took an experimental, shaky step. Something oozed through my socks, like they were filled with mud.

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I couldn’t help but groan. Standing up had not been a good idea. Everything hurt.

“Do you know that…

Re-evaluating Strangers

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