The blade is thirsty. You feel its icy edge tear through your hot frantic heart. Tremble. Twitch. Lie, as you will never move again. The trees and bushes hiss like flames. I inspect the damage. Poke. Prod. Carry you over my shoulder. I do not hate humans for who they are, rather the reality they create. The jagged scars around my chin. The rage. The way they demand attention for rubbing a starved pig's fat across their overfed lips. The profitable destruction of necessities-- earth, peace, love, other faces...
Death by death, I became part of it.
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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...