Chapin City Blues

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

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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“This might be the wine speaking,” she whispered. And the oblivion wraps its arms arms around me in a welcoming embrace, an old friend falling back in step with me. Alarm clock blared. Six-in-the-morning head fog, dehydrated mouth, and bad breath. Empty wrappers and containers of food litter the floor beneath my feet. My “home …

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