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.


paisley said...

very tight... loved it..

DJ Mommy said...

Wow! The hollow sadness of that is haunting!