Crayon Bridge

A Story of What Might’ve Happened

Fingers stained with paint, right leg itchy, tingling, on the edge of that non-burning burning from the turpentine that spilled and soaked my jeans, I dug for the last cigarette in the crumpled paper pack, lit it quickly, and slid down the wall onto the floor.

writer looking for a home for my words — a place to stretch my typing skills, hone my use of the thesaurus, & learn from the community.

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