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Flash Fiction

Trench

Silhouetted against the darkening horizon, a hand reaches.

Pen or Harpoon?

“It is time,” Sun says.

Again? I almost sigh; it’s pointless. I trudge towards the horizon, harpoon in hand.

Mirror

The reflection shatters into a thousand shards, resplendent, subversive, cutting edges catching light.

Weather

Weather’s five children sat at the top of a trench, hating the music of the village below.