Beads of sweat slip down her skin. The leather of her shoes sticks to her feet. White heat bounces off stucco walls. Identical alleyways, one after another. Salt laden air drifts through, teasing her left. Waves pound rocks. The sound swirls in her ears, pulling her right. How did I get here? How do I get out? She rounds a…
Churn, churn, rumble, surge. Words streamed out and crashed into me, like waves against a rocky shore. But I am not made of stone. Words, unlike water, don’t simply wash away. Everything changes. Even the stone, over time, gets worn down. Churn, churn, rumble, surge. My nerves are frayed. Sleep dances out of reach. At least now I know. The…
VCE Chemistry teacher in Melbourne, Australia
a 100-word story every day
The website of Christopher Iacono
The Mom Who Runs: 