I don't travel. I've no desire to feel the syringe-sharp rain of London, nor the hand-soft sunlight of Miami. Friends send postcards, black-inked pleas to lift me from my couch. So what? I heal myself with everyone I've wounded. My friends and their enviable expeditions. The ladies of the Home Shopping Network, with bracelets like sparkly silver bandages. The breath I'll never become... No wonder I can't find happiness. It's always pulsing in the core of a faraway shadow.
YOU ARE READING
Flash Fiction and Short-Shorts
RandomAll stories here are 1000 words or less. Though small, they are big in meaning. There are also writing prompts for the dreaded block. The Rochambeau drawing is inspired by one of his portraits; the Lafayette one is not. If you are witty often enou...
