New Flash Fiction story over on Hijacked Amygdala
It is late, the dark has started weaving nests into crannies. I’m drunk. We’ve only known each other a few weeks.
“I don’t want this,” I told her, a few minutes ago.
And so, she paces.
“What are you?” she asks, her arms limp from nail biting.
I frown at her, drinking something–a beer, probably. “I’m a man?”
She frowns, “No–no! You are arms–yes, legs, eyes–yes, three hundred pages of verse, maybe–but you are not a man.”
She goes back to pacing.
I roll my eyes. “Why are you being so dramatic?”
“I’m not being dramatic,” she tells the other side of the balcony, “I’m being poetic.”
She walks back and stands over me.
She looks down, into me–about to cry or kill me, I don’t know.
“Some butterflies are beautiful for only a day and then they die,” she whispers. She kneels down, places her face on…
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