Short 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Commercial Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
...f Blue Sm...ke

Submitted: February 17, 2007

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Submitted: February 17, 2007

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The first thing she noticed was the smoke. It was definitely not normal smoke. For one thing it was blue, not a smokey blue as one may expect but a deep royal blue that you only saw on magazine covers of American beaches. The other strange thing she noticed, which was equally abnormal but far more worrying was it’s source. It was streaming from her wrists in plumes that old pipe smoking gentlemen would slit their wrists for. Actually in a strange way the wrists made a strange sort of sense. The last thing she cold remember before she woke up here had something to do with her wrists. And hate. A lot of hate for someone or something, she suspected herself. More than that though she could not fathom why she was feeling faint like a saint sniffing paint but I know I ain’t AUGHHH!? She had to get out of that loop. She knew that she had been in and out of that for some time but now it had started to develop some sentience of a pattern. It was as if her brain was rewiring itself after the trauma and had reached the point of adolescent poetry with a four year olds taste in rhyme without reason.

She knew now what had happened. The mem0ry hadn’t hit her with any of the force she expected, instead seeping through the monochrome stripes of her bangs to stand right in front of her face with the 0paquely of a tinted wind0w that alters perception without changing the overall essence of the st0ry. It was breathing deeply into her neck in a way that was both comfortable and unnerving, d0ubly s0 f0r the c0mfort that it brings. In n0ticing this jar envel0ping her being it shattered and she saw the reality 0f the situation f0r the first and final time. There was no smoke. only a deep red repugnance of her lifeblo0d flowing through the water to give a pink sheen that would be beautiful if it hadn’t bore out 0f the gashes through skin and flesh, just flesh like that of any animal you could name, all the same, self inflicted shame, of taking all the blame, the shade of the flame, shapeless but all the same, with a form, enveloping, and developing to and end with no meaning that no beauty could bee seen in, if only she was dreaming, she would have woken up by now...


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