It must have been the length of his breath that left the fractured pros bound to and by the cons. It could have been the strength of his stench that kept it all lingering. Like a spell, hovering smoke, the leftovers from what he spoke. Did you catch his drift? Did it give you any sort of lift? A higher power doesn’t exist. It’s all grist for the mill. At least until.
Short Story: Fractured Prose
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