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The Cold War

Mary had been with me everywhere.  The ups, the downs, the countless moves to different cities and states.  I couldn’t shake her.  My sibling barnacle knew all my moves and how to push all my buttons.  She was my rival, always nearby, a sentient shadow.  And one day when we were coming back from Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors I just, well, snapped.  A moment later when I realized where I was, all I saw was my little sister (not even one whole year younger than me – clinging stubbornly close even in age) lying there on Gower Street with a scoop of vanilla rolling slowly to the gutter.  It lost its glint as it picked up debris and quickly started to melt.

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Crazy Eddie

“Oh crap, Alan’s at the door, gimme a minute here hang on,” I said as I rushed away from our front door and its fisheye peep hole.    I knew we had to air the room out, our building’s owner Alan was at the door, and I was already in trouble with the friggin’ guy.   I stubbed out my joint and hurriedly opened my bedroom window.

“Wait, hold on, Eddie, you know you can’t be here.”  I said.

“What do you want me to do, jump out?  Looks like I’m already screwed anyway, what else am I gonna do?”  Eddie replied.  He was always a nervous and paranoid guy; now he was also drunk and high and his personal nemesis had arrived at our door – excuse me, my door.  Eddie didn’t belong here at 164 Prospect Park West.

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