Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

There’s this young man and he’s running. Every so often he turns around to see nothing but the open road expanding behind him. The city, the trees, the people he loved and loathed are all gone. And somewhere in the expansion in front of him is little Fiona, waiting. Watching. Yearning for him to come closer. So that she may sink the knife into his chest, smiling as she does so. Not watching his step, the young man slips into yawning ground; the earth swallowing him whole.

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