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midwestern gothic

there's a third person in this story

The gutter is stained with lives...

ren’s field

For now though, there was a hitch in my gate, a stutter in my stride. I moved like a broken automaton, a machine aware of the hows of survival but unaware of the whys of survival. I pulled my lips back from my teeth, licked my lips, and repeated that motion five times to loosen up the muscles that allow such an facial expression.

three out of four ain’t too bad

It was the result of a brokenness in his body.

times long past

He would sit there, with his tight frown, his pent-up bowels, his shoulders narrow again like a boy’s, his paper-thin skin shaking and he’d wait.

spread like snow on a windy day

Would you beat Old Franky like a rented mule rather than just let Old Franky be Old Franky?

outside looking in

As I got closer to the door, I thought less of the thing on the other side and more about the flow of light – the way it cascades like water in undulous, radiative motion.  The way it comes, brilliant, from a source, and spreads like the rays of the Sun King’s crest – a halo of crespuscular rays.

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