And suddenly we saw everything differently. The simplicity of the story seemed significant, even profound. The simplicity of the language seemed elemental, important. The repetition made beautiful, resonant little circles of words. And everything we’d learned about writing was bullshit.
I wanted a come-to-Jesus-go-to-hell storm of biblical proportions to befall this God-soaked land. She didn’t want pennies from heaven. I wanted a cold, hard million-dollar blast to wipe out this so-called event.
“That was Messing’s Horse at the water trough. Elijah recognized the blue pack roll on the back like the agent had described. Finally, he thought. The man moves fast for someone with nowhere to go.”
“I’m gonna kill you sons of a bitch,” he said, when he saw the torn sheet.
“I found him on a cold day in a slow spring.” New flash fiction from Dez Walker
A collection of all the articles we published last month for those who like their magpies’ tidings as an issue.
And then I knew, after sign upon sign upon sign, I knew as surely as I knew my own self, that I had a ghost living with me.
Both living on their nerves, growing thinner as Tom grew fatter, they refused follow-up visits from the authorities. She missed her post-natal check-up, and they did not attend the vaccination clinic. The authorities became concerned.
All night long they clung to each other, bobbing on a sea of whisky and memories and dreams, lashed to a floating spar that sank and rose and sank and rose again.
“Maybe this meant something, maybe it didn’t.”
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