Candice Lango
Stories (3/0)
Drive
Gray gravel crunches as I rev the worn out truck up the narrow driveway. Leafy branches swing overhead and undergrowth moves in layers around the dirt path. I sigh as the front tires bounce over a pothole. It's way too late...no, way too early to be getting home. When are these 4 o'clock in the morning arrivals going to stop? Never. I hear myself answer my own question. They will stop when you're dead. God, why do I become so macabre when I'm tired? Why do I talk to myself?
By Candice Lango3 years ago in Fiction
A Year
I went without shoes today. It's April and you can see the grass through the limp snow now. It still feels like leprechaun spears in your toes. I got the mail in bare feet and skinny legs like sticks under my hand-me-down dress. I didn't have any clean underwear so I didn't wear any. Mama was cleaning the bathtub so she didn't know I was without shoes. And because I'm seven and a half and I dress myself she raised her eyebrows about the hand-me-down sun dress. I failed to mention the underwear. I didn't get anything in the mail.
By Candice Lango3 years ago in Families