• Overcast by B. Clay Moore

    What had he done with the flowers?

    A — what. A rabbit? Maybe. Or maybe a pair of fingers. Flashing a peace sign.

    No — a rabbit. Definitely a rabbit.

    His chest felt wet. That was a thought he had. He tried to take a deep breath, but the wetness seemed to tighten around his lungs like — what.

    When he was a child, his mother used to take a hot washcloth and wipe his face with it before bed. The cloth would feel heavy as it clung to his face, but in his memory it was always a soothing heaviness.

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