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Flash Fiction

The feeling is fond, not restless. Like remembering a place without packing a bag.
It was a complex spiral of translucent violet petals
Opposite side of the planet. Night there.
“It’s wilting,” Elara said, her hand still on the valve. “I’m fixing the intake.”
The ship remained part of him. But the mission had ended.
Sometimes it was gratitude taking a longer form.
She wasn’t “Elara the Fixer” or “Elara the Soldier.” She was just Elara
Becoming, he understood, was not additive. It was subtractive.
The civilian cotton felt “dangerously light”
People left for reasons that had nothing to do with him
The Mae West Protocol
The Constant

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