Pockets stuffed with messages. Darla dreaded the feel of crumpled balls of paper against her smooth skin. The notes, though. She never could figure out where they came from. Her hand, quite possibly, but the penmanship was all over the map to the point where Darla forgot what her handwriting looked like. She turned the eviction notice over, reached for the nearest pencil, and waited until her fingers got moist and twitchy. Darla didn't need to look down at the countertop. What could she see through the thick red smoke anyway?
EXHIBIT A
Why did you quit?
Now get back down in that snake pit.
You didn't get roughed up enough the first time, Luv.
Oh, I see the blood on your hands.
That's because you went and killed the wrong man.
I hate to say it, but:
You need to go do it again.
And leave the driving to us!
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
Leave a comment