The following is a featured 100-word story from the June Writing Challenge.


From behind the clouded window of my apartment, I can pretend the white blanketing the street is snow (alive and soft and fleeting), not ash (him and her, deleting). I can say the burnt sky is at sunset, and the windows are not shattered but glittering in the evening light. I can say, perhaps, as the birds fly south, it’s with them everyone’s gone away.

Within these walls, I can pretend oh-so-many things. And so long as I never leave, I needn’t ever cease. But should I close my eyes, there the trouble begins. For then, I’m no longer within.




Karina Murphy

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