She went to click the pen and it shot out of the casing, leaving the page empty and ink on her hands. Missed the mark again. Damn.

15,000 acres of California burned like parchment, dry and brittle. The sky looked of rain. The air felt of rain. And they say, “If it looks and quacks like a duck…” But the sky held out. It was no duck– not today. And California burned.

Every time she came home the locks had changed. A new barrier of entry on the same old doors. As she climbed through the window, slid through the bedroom sill, she wondered why she still called it home.

MEDIA UPDATE: “The weatherman is no false prophet! Come hell or high water, it’s partly cloudy with a high of 103.”

Impotence on the page, in a futile attempt to play God, she turned on the tap and leisurely did the dishes until the well dried.

*painting: The Burning Giraffe, Salvador Dali


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