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Flash Fiction

“Alright,” Yara said. “Let’s begin.“
But look at the curve of the fruit
Choosing which sensations are translated
Words were still there—precise, available, intact
They arrived expecting forecasts
She hesitated. There was one other diagnostic she could run
He was the god of his own small box
Events are rearranged, symbols condensed
If he wasn’t careful, the day would dissolve
Ritual supplies that permission.
He stopped a few paces short.
The day shaped itself.

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