Tiny Particles

The house was ours, not Harry’s. But every night he’d show up just the same: dirty bare feet; bruised shins; a Band-Aid on his knee covering an ever-present wound; white shirt and grey knee-length pants several sizes too small. His sandy hair stuck out all over, as though he slept on it wet, but his clear blue eyes shone more than anyone’s I had known. I was ten when we moved into that house, and even though he was only a little taller, I figured Harry was older.

This story was longlisted in Furious Fiction October 2020. Full flash fiction piece over at Cabinet Of Heed.

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on email

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *