something like an aftertaste
it was always the same story...
The hidden folder on her phone was a wasteland of screenshots of poems written in and deleted from the notes app. She never looked back once she filed something in it.
She moved each story there with the thought “maybe I’ll repurpose it with different subject matter” on the edge of her mind, but never did.
It was always the same exact plot. Even when it looked different, smelled different, felt different on the tongue, the stories always held the essence of a specific narrative thread—almost like an aftertaste.
It was hard to get away from, she liked the notion of not writing the plot, but she couldn’t truly wrap her pen around the idea of moving on.
The evening was humid, the oscillating fan was barely blowing and the CD playing started skipping, but she didn’t notice. She didn’t give a damn about anything. She had been writing again.
Reading back what she had written, she smiled and slowly started to notice her surroundings.
She read back what she had written and hesitated. Hand steady, she took a screenshot, deleted the contents of the note, turned off the CD player and sat in front of the fan.