Thirteen squared.

Ugh. I'm tired and have been searching for Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus" for too long, yet the song slips through the joints in my skull and flosses my exhausted mind. So I took a break, and inspired by Autumn's "flash fiction" assignment, decided to try my hand. Mixed results ensue--the assignment calls for 500 words, I decide at 169, 13^2. Then I get stupider and make each sentence 13 words. Ick. Damnable results, angsty and riddled with clumsy metaphor. Can't win 'em all.

Her beauty was her tight tiny clothes, his was that he didn’t care. He wasn't remarkable except he knew it; she didn't and so would learn.
Across the gulf of promises she caught his eye and possessed his mind. Muttering advances, lust and fear mixed in his cheeks to form deep red. After three dates, in her daddy’s pickup, behind the local Aco, midnight happened. She moaned lies that caught in his throat, cut him as he swallowed. Four months later, addicted to the mechanizations, their industry formed an accidental product. The waiting room, bright and empty as his mother’s alcoholic smile, disdains him. Gentle doctors, clean rooms, the best in modern medicine and baby is unborn. Complications clutter simple procedures like dark black splotches on a clean white page. Every birthday her bed sprouts rose candles as he sings, presents his tears. He’s too young to have unlearnt the truth of lost love and lies. Poor he, poor she; she’s too old, too lost, love unlearnt, and lies.

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