Runaway Parade
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Lint

AMANDA MILLER

December 16, 2012

Inside a swishing pool of sweat, cotton, and detergent, Lint whispered, “Come to me, Clothing. Sweet, sweet Clothing. Come. Allow me to invade your crevices, pummel your lining. Come. Let me love you like you know I want to, like you know I will.”

Clothing spoke back, saying, “Love is such a tender word. Like cherry blossoms under a sun-streaked sky.”

Lint said, “Yes, which is why it applies to you, my sweet.”

Clothing blushed. Lint giggled. As the dryer whirled, the two joined together in a spinning sort of dance.

And then, just like that, fifty-four minutes had past and their love was finished. Lint was sucked out of Clothing, stuck to a rack. The dryer had finished its cycle, and fingers eagerly pulled the door open. Fingers lifted up the rack, wiping it clean, and tossed Lint in the trash.

“Good-bye, Lint,” Clothing uttered tearfully.

“Adieu mi amour,” Lint whispered from deep within the soul-less wastebasket. “I shall ne’er forget you nor the love we had, the love we made.”

Clothing had not so much as a moment to glance back at Lint before Fingers shoved her into a laundry bag. As Clothing grieved, Fingers clutched string and then Feet carried her away


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