Remember what I said about writing microfiction? Well, this is an example of exactly that. It may not look like much now, and maybe it isn’t, but it gave birth to a plethora of other stories, some that I haven’t even finished yet.


To be born again, first you have to…Anna and I chased butterflies through the field, laughing with our heads thrown back, hair spindling gold as it chased behind us. We clapped the air victoriously over our butterfly until snap we held the wings and the body was in the needles and Anna laughed and I held the still-glowing innocence of wings in my palms, curtain of hair blocking a single golden tear and I whispered to be born again, first you have to… 

I lay draped over a familiarly rotten couch under the creaking fan, smoke spiraling from gnarly fingers as I vainly try to blow circles into the wretched air. A hand roughly traces my calves and he towers over me, broken lips curling over the smoking paper as I slither my tongue around his pulse point and he sucks in poison one too many, one too many and in a convulsing heap he falls over me and I cradle his hair, eyes milked and staring at whirling blades above, and my tongue scrapes over his ear, to be born again, first you have to… 

I ran through the concrete, industrialized field of my present, crazed with my head thrown back, hair spindling smoke behind me as I chased the last precipice of my dreams. The stair spiraled up, up, up because maybe the closer my lote-tree, the better my chances, and she whispered in my ear, golden wings in her palms, that maybe to be born again, first you have to
I jump. 


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