Flash Fictions
Just Right Before Unknown
This place is forbidden. The fields are laced with simple juices, known within or without. Trees crack fifth and fourth from directions the wind can't fear. I'm digging where the trees have fallen. It's been said, in thick, barbarous tones, that the rocks in this place are hollow. Once broken open they leap, not fast but high, into the branches with a slightly melodious hissing sound. And when this sound stops the light that is left from the sun twists and bends to form questions or answers depending on the pressure. The only problem, making all other problems unimportant, is treachery loves the trees. Leaves from their branches fall into the vowels of each question and consonant of each answer. It's not that the leaves can read, but just that the sun can't spell.
Head On: Either The End or The Beginning
Raising rabbits is not easy. No, no it's really not. If you get scared, e-mail me and I'll calm you down. Things being what things being.
