My own meme invention, a Fiction in 58 is an amuse-bouche of a story; a quick little bite.
Frustration spreads across his face, a crimson blossom. He speaks in clipped sentences, pleading for passage. The transit worker grits her teeth. She’s had enough and puts a hand up to his chest, lowers her head, shakes.
While paramedics tend to the woman crumpled at the base of the stairs.
“Bitch shoudda known better,” he says, stomping away.
The Walking Rock Alphabet: I
4 hours ago