When I was in the first grade, I was probably the only girl in my class who’d never gone rabbit hunting with her father.
Everyone loved the flowers, even though nobody knew where they came from.
I always saw him in my dreams. We met in a thinly wooded forest with a smoldering red sky. Why, I don’t know. But he was always there.
She couldn’t remember a time before the swamp.
I remember almost nothing about him. I just remember he was there, that I cared for him, and his name.
The terrible sound rushed upon us, gnawing at our backs as we ran over the plump spring grass.
What was the first evil thing you loved?
Everyone has a first memory. Over the years, memories fade and shift, altered as we lose the truth behind them and start to shape them based on our retellings. Earliest memories may fade into still images, as many of mine have, but we all still have them. They linger on. Some are cherished, but not all.
Going home it always bitter sweet. As I crossed into my home county, I felt the anxiety settling in. I was home, and that was only comforting until it suddenly wasn’t.
A flash fiction written in a couple of minutes, inspired by the discomfort of dermatophagia.