Monday, December 09, 2013

Super Flash Fiction

The crimson and burnt umber converged on her palette, in her mind, in her hands.  She rubbed her palms together, kneaded it, covered her fingertips.  Who knew there would be so much blood? 

She smeared it on her canvass, an ironic parody of finger painting.  Except she was no longer a child.

In the distance, the sound of sirens. 


Post a Comment