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Mrs Elys Travesty #29

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She rushed for the bus to the cemetery, just about catching it: it had to be that bus otherwise she wouldn't have time to collect the girls. Exhausted and panting, she fell into an empty seat, clutching her bouquet of roses.
Moments later the man in the seat in front moved to the back of the bus, saying something about "smell."
So what if she stank of whisky? She rarely drank it, so hadn't realised her breath smelled.
She ran her fingers through her hair and they caught in the knots. She tugged, dropping a small clump onto her lap.

4 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 1 month ago

    You’re building the tension and the sense of her misery so well, Drew. Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes I dread what’s coming next... but, like her booze, your dark tale is becoming an addiction for me.🥴

  • avatar

    Drew Martyn about 1 month ago

    Thanks Neville, I'm glad you're enjoying it (if "enjoying" is the right word.)

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 1 month ago

    It is. I think I must be a masochist at heart.

  • avatar

    Drew Martyn about 1 month ago

    Yep, me too :)

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