Creative writing: skits, short stories, essays

The Dust (tentative title)

The engine wouldn't start. He'd taken the old Chevy apart and put it back together a hundred times by now, always trying to give her one more day, even one more hour of life. But now, she wouldn't start, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. The grit and filth that blew through the air had finally gotten into the fuel, and he had no way to purify it, no way to make it clean.

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Oh. Oh, man. What did I sleep on? A couch? Where am I? This isn't my apartment. Did I go home with someone last night? That isn't like me. How drunk was I? I don't remember drinking. I don't remember much of anything, come to think of it. Yesterday, yesterday… was I at my mom's house? My sister's? Everything is so foggy.

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Night Song

It always happens this time of night, the time when almost everyone has gone to bed, and the last of the porch lights blink out across the lake. It happens when the moon has consumed the sky and has its partner shimmering in the center, and a song starts drifting across the water. It is an old song, some folk melody which was popular long before someone was around to make a recording. The song climbs up out of the water and begins snaking its way to any who might be awake, carried as if on but against the wisps of wind.

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