Misplaced

The sweet aroma of biscuits filled her bedroom. She dressed quickly and rushed downstairs. Her uncombed hair fell loosely around her shoulders and matts of blond curls stood straight up in the back. “Good morning,” said a sweet frail voice. “Biscuits smell good Nan, are they ready?” she asked. “Right after your hair is combed dear and you are dressed properly. Every meal deserves respect.” It was going to be a long summer for Jordan Miller.

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About writesome

I've been wanting to do this for a while. Now I can type instead of pen scratch in a journal. It's an experiment, but isn't life. I wish you joy and happiness. May life bless you and may you bless life. View all posts by writesome

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