Flash Fiction
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It is an even field, an evened space between them, or that is what’s assumed. There’s a summer’s sunlight overhead, and a thousand unseen droplets of sweat from a hundred different bodies. All of them, animals. A choice is highlighted. One that acts out in doing what can be done to close this gap. Whispers
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Whatever I’ve seen happen to her, stays with her, while I’ve gone to shed tears in private. If I’m to blame, she won’t admit it, and won’t lash out. It isn’t necessary. I recognize it, by myself. For I see what I’ve caused, because I’ve broken down her walls. Four of them. They closed her
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To them both, everything echoes. One voice crawls to the other, but both come back to their giver, receiving remnants. Of what? Of hope. They’ve seen the other side. They’ve transferred more than can be undone. She looks at him, seeing a world covered in the butterflies from her stomach. She released them to him,
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To him, all that has manifested in this aftermath might be said to be all he expected. All that destruction of a form, all because he took a different direction. Had he lied to himself at that second? All he wanted was relief. A different place to put his sanity. To whatever was left of
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Wondering. Always wondering. At what? Only a mystery. It has been kept in a darkness, swelling in all its oceanic curves. Though, there is no symmetry. There is no place a certain divide can be viewed, should that be evidence of a clean divide. We see her, jagged and raw. She looks over her shoulders,
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He stands. With a beating heart that hopes to bloom, again, he stands, until he finds himself sinking with that heart. Down to earth, bringing ear to soil, attempting to find an echo in drowned scenery. His tears have poured from such storms hanging like tattered curtains above his head. His fingers have trembled, matching
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“Who would I be, if I avoid it?” she asks, swiping a missing falling tear at her cheek as if she forgot the last. I check her posture. It stations itself, firm with preparation for what emotion she moves towards. She wants to embrace it, I know. A cold darkness. She has made a shell
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I keep grieving on that last word, hoping that meteors will reverse themselves. Or that an eclipse will bring back its former light. Or that a tidal wave would not have crashed to topple a tower – that tower, the one where we were unified. Being held upright, because there was a desire to be
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I re-envisioned someone in a different state. A new world. Another pathway. She drew herself back into collapse, as all things, all memories would fade in her shadow. I drew her in, I carried her home. Many times, I brought her into open arms. Would they close? Would they ever truly close? I embraced an
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It was a display. A sight. A sight that had nothing for me to see, for that’s what it was. An absence. Neglect. What did she neglect? All of me, from all of her. A part of her had been torn open wide, by love, than for what love did upon me. I felt its
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At whose presence? Was he to live? Was he to stay living? For a woman born, and also scorned. She was left to a place, inside fatal ruins, becoming and living for that fatality. He came through, entered through, and brought forth all he could not leave for merely himself. A promise. A gift. Some
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Herein lies a crippled horse. He struggles to find a way to walk. Tears have left him burning on a slope that moves his eyes always down. Why will he always look down? To feet that never move him. To scars that never leave him. They are remade to be ripples within hardening soil, though
Modern Romanticism 