The clock strikes five, ending our shift for the day. I tell you good-bye, my eight hours a day friend. I know you, I know your jokes, I know your taste in women. I know you. At least, the part of you you bring to the office. The clock strikes ten. My co-worker lies dead. You deceived us with your smiles, hid behind your laughter. I feel as if I'm the one to blame. But why? Because I never asked? That's not my job. I'm not your psychiatrist.
A contest entry
- Give me a paragraph by Dawn Bon.
200 points, ended November 19, 2008, 13 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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good job
Tricky title, but i think you did a great job with it.
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