The alien looked ugly, dying in the dirt, trying to remain human.
It looked like her when she screamed about my room, again. Face twisting like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I screamed back, she slapped me. I laughed.
Actually, she looked like it when I left. Ugly and dying.
I found the alien later and sat with it. It gave me its memories, stories of broken kids.
I let it.
It’s dead now, but I’m not. I found the others.
We got ourselves a space, chairs, tables, where we share the alien’s memories, and rewrite our futures.
© 2021 Rebecca Glaessner
September 23: Flash Fiction Challenge « Carrot Ranch
In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about an author’s chair. It can belong to any author. Where is it located and why? Does it have special meaning? Go where the prompt leads!
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