Gosh, this has a wonderful sinister edge... amazing how much can be inferred from only 50 words...
Judith worries about cracks in things. In walls or glass or between paving stones under her feet. They seem darker to her these days, those sidewalk cracks. Widening. Like she could slip between them if she put a foot wrong. And she’d disappear then, like coins or keys can do.
There’s a whole other place down there. That’s what Mad Morecombe believes. See signs sometimes. Thinks he does. Coming up though cracks in the paving stones. Bottle-caps and old coins, pins and shells. Once, a note. Writing crooked like a child’s and all it said was ‘Please, let me out!’
Nice fragmentation in the Mad Morecombe one, D. It feels cracked itself.
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