By The Writing Bug on May 28, 2014
by Sarah Sullivan I woke up feeling agitated. I crawled over my five year old, a recently predictable late night arrival, and with the grace of a drunken chicken, flailed my way to the floor where I rummaged around on hands and knees grasping for glasses, which said child had undoubtably kicked to the ground as she scrambled into our bed. Unfortunately, the lenses only brought into focus the sea of detritus strewn across our room; papers, books, toys, blankets along with a few stray gold fish crackers tragically separated from their school. . . .
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