Micro Stories, Flash Thoughts, Short Poetry

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It was a dilapidated house. Beyond repair. The doors, bent and with rusty hinges bore a thousand marks. The roof creaked with every passing of wind. The walls, discolored, shed material when one touched them. The garden, treeless and grassless, looked forlorn. Yet when she entered the house, she instantly felt comfortable. Happiness long forgotten surged inside her..She had come back home.


Written by Kalpesh Muchhal

March 8, 2010 at 12:00 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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