There lies a pile of wreckage of what I called, home, until a few days ago. "Where do I find you?" I ask myself. I frantically search through souveniers of our life, crumpled in the quake. The hunger pangs strike again. I search, frantic- and, I find you.
And I tear at your flesh.
Hunger.
P.S : About 55 Fiction
A literary work will be considered 55 Fiction if it has:
- Fifty-five words or less (A non-negotiable rule)
- A setting,
- One or more characters,
- Some conflict, and
- A resolution. (Not limited to moral of the story)
Labels: story
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