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Short story: <i>Leaving</i>

I’m going to leave now.

I’m going to open the front door and slip out without making a sound, and I’m going to close it softly so all you hear is a gentle click.

I’m not going to put my shoes on; even now, in the night, the pavement will bake my feet warm and the air will stick my shirt to my arms and the warm breeze will demand nothing from me but play.

I’m not taking anything, just whatever spare change is in my pocket.

I’m just going to keep walking on the warm pavement, across the bitumen and the grassy lawns and stepping over rolled newspapers in the starlight, and I’ll just follow the roads through the neighbourhood until I reach the next one.

And then I’ll just keep walking.

You’re like a bad habit with me that I need to break, and I can’t do it in shoes with a wallet full of cash and the car keys jangling in my pocket.

Too many ties to you.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: night, habit, demand, bake, and spare.

Image courtesy of whiskymac.

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