Hidden. Your eyes ache with the pressure of the dark.
He folded banknotes with a mind to folding on his marriage. Ow! A paper cut. Like that first night. Gun shots, sirens. Ah, memories.
The nurses all agreed how nice Frank was. Then they read about the murder charge. He still holds the door open. They tend to run through.
Over the past few weeks I’ve been publishing microfiction. These pieces are stories in themselves, some funny, others weepy, all of them lovingly crafted. As some of you had guessed though, there is a larger narrative at work. With me having had a break for the holidays, now is as good a time as any to catch up on the story. Below, in order from most recent, is the story so far:
They listened until the last signal cut out. Then they ate each other. He wondered if we’re only human when the world is watching.
Amid the rare and terrible fear he felt, there was something almost gorgeous: his time was passing, falling, fading, but now he knew his smallness. For the first time, he knew the eye of the flower.
“I’m not above dying,” he croaked, applying his makeup by grace of the laptop screen. “I just wish I could outsource it.”
No one in life is ever truly gone, they told him. Well, he’d realised that. Replacements were everywhere. How devastating.
The priest watched the dying man, hoping for a clue.
Today’s flash fiction is entitled “The Funeral Invite”: She pondered: What paper was appropriate for a funeral invitation? Bank statement white! That’s how he’d want to be remembered.