Chapin City Blues

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

If my body was the prison, hers was the asylum. She existed before the godhead. Before the silhouetted night sky. The rain down. The oversaturated earth. Crimson was her aura. The bruise, her color. Pallid and glamorous. Automated fetish. Her mouth honey-sweet but sour to the taste. She claws herself from the early grave, 2 …

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She stood at its entrance, noticing how the trees filtered out the bright sun. She felt its pull, its beckoning. She wondered if he felt the same pull. Wondered if he stood there just as she was, trying to make sense of the need to enter the woods. The breeze rustled through the leaves, swaying …

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