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Don’t Trust the Merchandise

Flash Fiction Story: The trees are pink overhead, and the sky stretches

The trees are pink overhead, and the sky stretches beyond the blurring branches, milky like a death-filmed eye. My nerves are frayed, and my lips red and swollen, caught again and again between my teeth. I fumble with the crate, and my companion’s eyeless face turns towards me.

“I’ve got it,” I say quickly, reassuring both of us.

I don’t like it here, and my mind drifts to the portal behind me. I want to go home.

The buyer arrives and we make simultaneous movements, quickly exchanging delivery and payment.

“Until next time,” I lie.

The crate thrums, impatient.

(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: crate, nerve, simultaneous)

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