Flash Fiction by Rebecca Harrison
Our city was paper. It was warm. When the winds came, we heard the cathedrals tear. We saw the towers ripping. We tried to hold our walls to the ground, but the winds blew the city into pieces and carried them away. Some of the scraps fell at my feet and I put them in my pockets. When the winds had gone, I counted them. I kept them safe.
We followed the winds. We looked for pieces of our homes in the skies. I tried to remember the shapes of the city. I drew the towers and cathedrals on the paper scraps, so that I would know how to put the city back together.
We stopped searching. We live among brick and stone. I’ve watched the others forget, but I’ve kept the paper scraps. I listen for winds. I gather paper. I don’t know if the pieces are from my home.
Rebecca Harrison sneezes like Donald Duck and can be summoned by a cake signal in the sky. Her best friend is a dog who can count. Her stories have been published in Remarkable Doorways Magazine, The Fable Online, Maudlin House, 99 Pine Street, Rose Red Review, Axolotl Magazine, and elsewhere.
Image courtesy of LesEnfantsParis