The man is gone, my house is ash and only a gift-wrapped box remains.
Friday Flash Fiction |
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I write this now as one who is from a country where such holidays don't exist. My homeland is arid with afternoon winds mummifying the living. It's because of this that the thought of a decorated tree sitting so close to an open flame frightens me. You see, I had awoken from a crash, my heart pounding I crept downstairs and saw a thief, for what else could he be? I rushed the bearded man, knocking the pine into the fire, its needles igniting, spreading.
The man is gone, my house is ash and only a gift-wrapped box remains. Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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