Déjà vu
by
Tanja Cilia
We’ve just moved to an old town-house, bursting with antique
furniture.
I twist a knob on the bureau. There is a click, and a diary
falls out. That’s MY handwriting. Weird.
But… I never use blue ink, because it reminds me too
much of the school homework I loathed so much.
April 12, 1984: Grandpa drove me home after I twisted my
ankle when my sister pushed me. I never had a sister.
June 5. Crashed and totalled the Malibu. But our car
was a Toledo.
My husband returns from work. But he is not my
husband.
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4 comments:
A cliffhanger. Need another flash to explain this strangeness.
You have entered a new dimension into my top ten.
An interesting piece that I enjoyed reading.
Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.
Nice suspense!
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