Letters spilled over the floor. Dozens of them, written on the same yellowed paper as the one I held in my hand. I scooped them back into the box and took it with me when I left.
Few people know me, but I know many people. That's a skill that comes from living in the shadows and gaining knowledge through observation. It sounds bad, I know, but I didn't have a lot of options.
This isn't right. None of it. I can't say why, but it's all so wrong.
You know me, I know you do. We grew up together, you and I. Neighbors on a street full of kids with big hearts, sad stories, and impossible dreams. Do you remember the other kids? They left, one by one, until only you and I remained. I always knew they'd find their own stories.
I've got another prompt. It's pretty simple, and I hope you'll take the time to write your own version, as that's the point of it.
The day, sunny this morning, has turned cold and dreary, like any good holiday in the city. No snow here, though. I doubt half the residents even know the word. There's been such little communication from outside cities for so long that knowledge of other climates has passed beyond common knowledge. I know what it is because Tessian, Nemus's father, took it into his head to give all of us orphans what he considered a proper education. From him, I know that snow used to be expected on this holiday, though even the holiday's name has been lost to time. People still celebrate, though.
A vignette of a sixteen-year-old who babysits his younger siblings over the holidays.
The third part in my series of short shorts about loving but not needing coffee.
Coffee is only sometimes kryptonite.
This is a short short story about a young girl who runs away from her abuser.