Alright: for those of you who didn’t read yesterday’s post, I’m going to be using the bulk of my remaining 100 days to explore writing fiction. Feel free to comment on the content and what it gets stewing in your brain, or just in critiquing the writing, the feedback would be interesting:
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He’s been gone eight months now. The smell of him’s still in his clothes, though his scent has long since left the sheets.
I sit in his closet sometimes, feet tucked up under me, just to breathe him in. His clothes brush my face in the darkness, like some childhood game of hide and seek… Ha! What I’m hiding from is no friend of mine.
I’m too young to be a widow. Nobody calls me that. I wish they would. I feel that old.