Yesteryear Fiction

Angels
By Anton Ribaldo


In the dust I see a tree, a lone tree that dominates what would be mud if the sky could only cry. The ground is hard, restrictive, but the tree, like a pillar out of myth, rises into the sun, soars high and leaves the cracked and bitter ground behind. The tree is alive, truly alive, for it knows that it will find all the water it needs when its branches reach the clouds.


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Anton Ribaldo thinks this flash fiction thing is pretty cool.