There is a name inscribed on each arrow – arrows that have pierced the softest part of my psyche.
I count them every day, and remember the things that hurt me. I build an arsenal of my own – as a defensive measure. A mythological television show demonstrates to-and-fro fireworks , and their subsequent neutralisation of each other. I wonder whether I should dip my arrows in poison, or dress them in defence gear.
The corpse under my feet moves. Objectivity has been killed, while stories color the sky- stories written by me and my opponents.
– stories changing shape, color and depth
-stories confusing the world so much that they withdraw
-stories that leave us standing alone with our arrows
Will this battle spell the end of the world? Whose world?
Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: #47
Creative Experiments and More 