Prompt: Smudged Smudged are her thoughts, just around the edges, from perfect precision to hazy and obscure. A lipstick smear on the collar of her mind, telling, withholding reason. She has lost all sense of where to go from here. The journey meanders on the same path, backwards and forwards, and onwards... again? Never deviating, … Continue reading Smudged
We were given an “upgraded” room, number 1701, near the tip of the iceberg, the hotel’s zenith. (Welcome Mr. Ambassador.) One can only imagine which of Dante’s seven levels of Hell each of the sixteen floors below must’ve been.
His finger itched for action involuntarily, but this was more than a coyote scare. That was the pitch of Rose Spencer sinking into his pores, and she was no stranger to gunpowder and shrewd aim.