Lower Your Shields for My Next Trench Run

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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


Story is marked as mature.

“Nice shirt.” Adela said. Her eyes glittered mischievously.

I was wearing my classic Star Wars shirt. Inwardly, I sighed and waited for the other shoe to drop, the way it did last time, the whole thing culminating in an explosive argument about the prequels. Some of what I was feeling must have been given away in my face.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing, go ahead.” I said wearily.

“Go ahead and what?”

“Do what you did last time.”

“What happened last time?”

You started a fight and then weren't happy how it ended, I thought to myself. What I said was,

“Never mind.”

“I guess I just can't do anything right.” She threw her arms up in exasperation. She was the victim now and I was irrational. Fine.

“Fuck you!” I finally exploded, “I'm sorry you don't remember acting like a huge bitch last time but that's on you. You always want to needle me until I blow up. We'll that's where we are now. I swear to God, sometimes being friends with you feels like abuse. I wish you could remember half the fights you start.”


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