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Flash Fictions
The Purpose of Fire.
I've seen hope. Not in the eyes of children, or in some wacky over used metaphor, rather I have seen an actual, physical hope. It's not a place filled with broad clean streets and gas stations closed on sundays. There aren't pictures of hope in glossy magazines circulated through national subscription services. Hope isn't a mineral or animal, a liquid or gaseous excretion. There's a women, I can't tell you where, who makes hope. Her fingers don't bleed when she creates, like those who make inspiration. She reaches no transcendental state, like the man who manufactures tolerance and the occasional batch of hurried excitement. In fact, like all facts, she, this women who builds hope, finds her task boring and predictable. The exact process for making and the chemical composition of hope aren't exactly secrets, as much as they are just uninteresting lines of words and awkwardly connected syllables, easily forgotten. She dearly wanted to be a veterinarian, working with cats and dogs and cats again. But then dreams aren't meant for hope, she so often repeats while methodically assembling hope after hope after hope.
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.
