coffee
Prismacolor marker drawings lay crumpled up in the trashcan under the desk. The room is littered with forgotten bottles and books. I walk in and a take pictures, one after the other, sidestepping the body that lays in the middle of the floor. Looks like an overdose; alcohol, drugs. Another shooting star, who can’t handle the pressure, so tragic. I should write the headlines for the Tinseltown Star, no real journalism training needed. Later I find out it wasn’t an overdose it was murder. The boyfriend did it. Typical I think as I drink the now cold cup of coffee left on my desk.
MK edits financial investment prospectuses which is quite a disappointment to her eight year old self who thought she would've at least solved a mystery by now.
Find her @lets_baehl & @vsbrmkb - which is her secret twitter for book reviews
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Scribblings
When the scholar began reading between the lines, he was at first shocked by the plaintive simplicity of the hidden messages, then frustrated, then eventually bored as he inscribed them by hand.
