I don’t write much short fiction. My flash fiction frankly sucks, and I greatly admire those who can manage to write good flash fiction. I have never written microfiction – this one just came to me, and demanded to be written. And since I have nothing better to do with it, I might as well share it.


The rose garden was dying.
She stared out the window, at her husband, watering the front garden; a garden where no roses grew. Once, she had compared herself to a  friend. I am a rose garden, she had said, and you a cactus. Where you can survive on what little moisture you find, I require frequent watering. 
Now, the ground had baked and cracked; the roses wilted, and died.

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