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Meaning malice, she raises a banshee cry as she smashes my dream, bleeding and unfulfilled, to the ground. Up to my ankles in deferment, I look down and spy the early bird again devouring the early worm. Tired of the dreary violence of arbitrary punctuality, I look up to see the watermelon pinks and mango oranges of another indifferent summer morning beginning. I look everywhere but her squinted eyes and thin pressed mouth fearing falling into both.


Weekly Writing Prompt #42