The summer air tonight is
hazy with the smoke of a thousand
barbecues. The streets empty, save
for prowling cats, and drooling dogs
dragging sluggish walkers. Even
the flies are hungry for flesh. They
scream in my ears as my feet pound
home. Stomach growls.
Sweat drips.
Sun
sets.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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