Sunday Six
Oh man I need to get to bed. Here are my six sentences in one easy paragraph.
He spends the day, as he has spent most of the journey, going over the memories in his head, trying to work out which ones are real, testing them for flaws. They don’t have any. The memories of Brooklyn in the 40s, which he is sure are real, are no more or less clear than the small village outside Moscow he’s certain he didn’t grow up in. Everyone feels the same when the knife goes in; there’s no way to tell which memories of slaughter and torture are real. Then again, there’s no reason to think any of those aren’t. The smell of blood and death is as thick in his nostrils as the stench of the oil.
[Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project - published, submitted, in progress, for your cat - whatever.]