Well there you go, I have it now, the proof of all I’ve long suspected and imagined growing up amongst a tribe of little girls. The others pointed fingers, yet I knew, I really knew, though one of us was brought home in a basket left on the stairs by gypsies, it was not–of course I knew this well–I knew it was not me.
Flash Fiction Fridays
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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You were never a little girl. You were born 30.
Which puts a serious dent in my life expectancy.