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Showing posts from April, 2013

The Last Song (short story)

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     "I used to write poetry," Bill said as he leaned over Laura's leg and grabbed the bottle of oil. The old sofa they were sitting on had some sort of plastic lining in the cushions and made a crunching sound as he fell back into it. He twisted the lid off the bottle and poured a little oil onto a small piece of felt cloth, replaced the lid and placed it into Laura's outstretched hand. He picked up an eight inch length of metal tubing from a pile of other metal parts in his lap and began wiping it with the oiled cloth. "I also wrote short stories. Mostly cute fluffy stuff, you know, fun little snippets of life. Little paragraph boosts that would make you feel good after reading them. Sometimes they had no purpose other than to make people smile. No plot, no characters, just.. I dunno.. just quaint ideas with a mild revelation at the end." He paused before adding, "I miss that."     Bill finished cleaning the rest of his metal parts in silence.