Something of a Dream [RW04]

Something of a Dream [RW04]

She awoke as she always did, naked and next to the body of some man who had been far more attractive when she was drunk than when she was sober. The room smelt thick of cigarettes and the memory of smoke that was etched into the walls and carpets from years of filling the room with smoke so thick one could not see. Plucking the glasses — sharp, cat eyed, and thick rimmed — from the bed side table, she slid her feet from the warmth of the body next to her and to the floor where her slippers lay waiting. 

From the covers she flew, discarding them in her wake, uncaring for the body of the man who had no more business remaining in her house. She took three steps before she was searching for her robe. Turning back to her bed, her side was neatly tucked into the bed and a silken robe lay atop it. Snatching it, she haphazardly threw it around her body and rounded the room divider of her studio loft. Her kitchenette was chilled and unused that morning, other than the steaming hot cup of coffee waiting for her in one of her favorite mugs. 

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Memory [RW02]

Memory [RW02]

Memories. They come and go tickling the senses as they do. The smell of grass. An old book. Spring rain. Autumn wind. The feeling of summer’s heat, blue skies, or gray ones if you like. I know that when I hear the sound of bike bells I remember the years of riding our bikes and skate boards and scooters to the park. The baseball game would be going on and with our twenty dollars we could fill up our small bags with candy and sweets. But we had to be fast or else our parents would notice we left the neighborhood. All that candy we just bought? It needed to be scarfed down before we forced our stomachs to endure a healthy food shock that was dinner.

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About the [RW] Series

About the [RW] Series

What is the [RW] series? It translates as Random Writings. It’s just a series where I let my brain state what my brain wants to state on random things. There is no real meaning to it. They may be large. They may be small works. In some ways they could be considered poetry, but I wouldn’t go that far.

They are random writings, my personal writings about things.

MM