They were holding a vigil on one of the town squares and the mourning crew was in full attendance, dressed in hipster black, all tight jeans and neck ink and mullets. Someone important had died — someone important to this slice of city, anyway. Important enough that those in charge of the vigil had bought little electric candles and printed out photos that glossed over as they stretched out in the air dopey with humidity.

Mona Darks stood among them, sweltering through a black and faded handknit dress as she thumbed her candle’s power switch on and off, on. Off…

The (un)blog.

Writing about anything - so long as it's got "un-" somewhere in it. E-mail: | Instagram: @dustyeub96

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