A small bag turned over a wood floor, with walnuts spreading out of it.

Every day, she dressed her shell.

That day, when the cyclist hit her, she fell to the ground.

He drove his bike back and offered his hand. He had kind eyes, but she had a shell.

She got up by herself, spit on his face, and walked away. She had a hard shell.

Note: This piece was written for 53 Press monthly challenge, where you have to write a piece with exactly 53 words. The prompt for July 2020 was “shell”.


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