A piece of me.

The smell of desperation was thick. The shop was full of human odors not used to being all in one place. There was the scent of mildew, cigarette dust, body odor, and even a faint smell of something not quite identifiable to the woman. It might be cigar smoke or maybe marijuana. She had a flash of some long lost memory, some day long ago.
There was a struggle in that room- smells of human living, used and old and not wanted, fighting the false scent of Lysol spray. The spray did not work well. Everything she saw, from VCR's to hunting rifles seemed to gleam with a sticky sweet layer of air freshener. No matter- their former lives still shone through the plastic, wood and vinyl.
She stepped forward, red toenails gleaming and heels clicking, announcing her walk to the counter. Several baseball caps looked up, peeking at the out -of -place shopper.
"I have some things you might like to look at."

This is the third paragraph of a short story I wrote about 6 years ago called "Invasion of a Well-Heeled Woman" - no, it's not about myself, because I don't wear red toenail polish, only green, blue, orange or purple. I have alot of stories I love to play with like little mind games. It's good for the soul and good for me.

Sometimes, writing fiction is so liberating that I would dare suggest that everyone should try it. It has nothing to do whether it's "good" or "bad"- I mean to whom? Who cares? You should try writing a good first sentence sometimes....

words are one of our true freedoms.
Write people, write!!