100 words of flash fiction that plays to two hearts, that of a prose poem and the heart of fiction
by Monty Wheeler
The Chair sat there, and so did he, the little boy lost in a world no man called free. The Chair consumed—so small was he; not bad to be swallowed by The Chair. He hid his tears with little boy pride, for boys don’t cry, he’d heard that lie. He curled himself into a ball and prayed to God and Grandpa too. What else could any little boy do when God takes Mom and Dad from you? God and Grandpa both reached down to touch the boy whose tears would drown. Sorrow’s pain stabs again.