At the edge of the world on the third floor

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


The evening gently carried an umbrella of cool breezes. The sun was sinking, burning the horizon. The sky slid under the starry dragee at the edge of the world on the third floor. At the edge of the curved lines, where memory rushed into a melted mirage, a carnival vanished in silhouettes rumbled, ruled, and conjured for a short time. Lips whispered to crowded worlds, to cells enclosed in balcony frames, about new life, about the future, about dreams, about sweet fairy tales, about prophetic winds. Tears rolled down the tails of comets that had been extinguished in the funnel of thousands of years. The afterglow of illusions being a silent movie, flashed and oozed through the open window. Fortune floated naked without shame, penetrating cities from distant darkness. It is a Russian roulette, a crafty fate that embraces you, situated between the lines in an open book.

 


Submitted: January 30, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Igor Mit. All rights reserved.

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