(no subject)

[moon_custafer]

Still plodding along on the Patchwork Flesh submission. I’ve got no idea whether this story makes any sense.


Golden boys and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust

You do sweep, but the dust always collects again, even within the hour. Dust flocks to you. Frank had laughed at your untidiness when the two of you first began dating: Who died and made you king of the dust-bunnies?

I don’t know why I said that, he’d apologized. No, I do – you know how it is when you haven’t known someone long, but you can’t imagine them other than how they are? Not older or younger. I mean, look at you. As far as I know, you might have fallen out of the sky eighteen months ago wearing the clothes you have on now. It’s a kind of perfection, really.

Perhaps he’d been right. You recall shockingly little about your parents. Frank was full of stories about road hockey and his brothers and sisters and his mom and dad. Most of them you have met, and several of them call from time to time to see how you are doing. You tell yourself you are lucky to live in the twenty-first century.

Comments

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

Very, very nice.