Flash Fiction

Her fingers. They are like creeping spider legs, spindly and skeletal, reaching out towards you, pleading and desperate.

MORGAN QUINN, BRIDGET CLEARY’S FINGERS

The Guilty Pleasure of Parthenope—Kathy Hoyle

He wakes, pushes himself up to rest on his forearms, his pale shoulders jutting like scallop shells. He blinks against the blur– blue water, to no avail. Everything moves in flux, rippling in slow time. Whispers dance around him, muted echoes ebb and flow. He blinks again, tries to focus, but the world remains a curved and fluted half-dream.

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