A slight slip of fiction, 58-style

The task is to create something using just 58 words. Lots of thoughts, ideas right now. Angst is a muse.

An Itch You Can’t Scratch

She knew nothing of redemption.
The itch kept her anchored to the streets, back alleys where the dark hid the sunken cheeks, sallow skin.
A fickle snow kept traffic light, panic tight. Wind tears muddled mascara, widening the natural circles under eyes.
A memory sparked thoughts, painted nails, clean sheets homemade soup, friends, family.
Pushed aside.
That itch.

2 comments:

paisley said...

very tight... loved it..

DJ Mommy said...

Wow! The hollow sadness of that is haunting!