Courtney: A Flash Fiction

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The rain stung, fierce and real; times when they had sprinted, she snorting and he with silly mouse-call chuckles, the drum of angry hornets chasing. Imagine had she crashed and burned in pointed poison. What a fire through her veins that would bring.

She hated fire, the searing blare of it. Its dance, jumping in the light of itself, inspiring consumed bodies to bound with it. And oh, how he had danced. How he had sung to the beat of red-tongued maidens. How he screamed…

No dancing, no song. Still and cold, like her bullet, she would go.

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