Chapin City Blues

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

“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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No one knows where she came from. Just that she appeared in Night Ocean one day. Hollow stare scratched upon vacant eyes – black holes into unnameable galaxies. You can find her lingering. Often in the corners of rooms just within your peripheral. Wisps of golden sand hair, tangled with seaweed. Cracked skin. Coral for …

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