Microfiction ─ Part II.

A series of short stories, each told in 50 words or less.

( 006. )

She liked to think of her heart as a graveyard, where she had died too many times to count and buried herself. She was like a ghost, one who always came back, never learning her lessons.

( 007. )

He wore a different face now, but she understood well why her soul sang to his. The eyes were windows to the soul, and she'd never seen a darker shade of blue in anyone else's eyes than his. She swore in this life that she'd never let him go again.

( 008. )

She bled red. She saw red. The man in front of her had eyes that were red. The flames dancing in the distance were red. She expected no less of Hell.

( 009. )

She tore her skin away from her breast and was stunned to see nothing in the bleeding, dark chasm. She thought that if she had a heart, it'd be as cold and black as the abyss that was her chest.

( 010. )

She filled books with colors and poured poetry onto paper, for these were the only ways that she could convince herself and the world that she, too, was capable of creating beauty.