I have to wonder what the glitch was. What caused your hand to slip, one finger marring the view of your subject?
Or perhaps it wasn’t you at all. I seem to remember that about you. How you never took responsibility for your actions. It was always the fault of the other guy.
You took something so lovely. Something so pure and left your mark. A sunset, the sea, a kind woman; all were the same. You twisted perfection, bending it to your idea of perfect—breaking to trigger that one imperfection.
You created a sunset with a glitch.
By Lisa H. Owens
Just 100 Words
100 Word Stories - August 2020 Photo Prompt
Keep it simple, Stupid!
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