Secret Flaviors

The shattered window. I remembered that. The blackness of the empty display. The feeling of my fist going through. The snap of glass as cracked along white fissures. A jagged maw laced the edges of the frame. A dozen fragments of my face shone back at me. I reached into my backpack and pulled out my shard of glass. Tried to see if I could find out where it was supposed to go. If it matched up with any of the sharp lines. Nothing I tried worked. Oh well, I couldn't waste my time with that. I sat down in a spot that felt right. Well, that felt less wrong than any of the other spots. I pulled my tablet out of my bag.

© 2024 Meir Bowlow (Hljóðbók): 9798875183867

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Hljóðbók: 8 oktober 2024