Flash Fiction

Grey Day. Pink film leased to the trailing clouds. Hard edges arise, everywhere. Raw accents aloud, everywhere. Wrapped in a borrowed environment. My ears hear nought. It’s all in the eyes. Pity the blind. Putting on a dumb show.

The rockets scratch across the skies. Contrails and threats are all they bring. Greyish day. Lightening but no thunder. Or my ears hear nought. Hard edges soften to dull. Raw accents, screech into the void. The rocket motif repeats, and then repeats. I get the point.

The experience on the radio tuner is colourised. No greys allowed. White days are closer now. A view from the bridge is a memory. All I can hear inside my own environment is my breath. Hard and raw. All I see now is the televised conception. A misconception of the end.