Here, in the empty warehouse I am reading a whole book about a poem I have never read. From this angle above the pages I only see sky—I could be floating.
The apartment floor, where a record skips, taunts me with agitated art—like the poem, the book. My fingernails are crooked and chipped, I see, and ink stained (perhaps a hopeful thing)—and every now and then, through haunted blue windows, a hawk devours the sky.
Flash Fiction by Adam Cheshire, a writer living in the small town of Hillsborough, NC.
Photo by Adam Strong