Flash Fiction: The Creation

I pat down the last of the grave soil, and light seven candles with dirty hands. The figure is more mound than man: a failed Adam.

Its crude arm reaches.

I give it the effigy of my child’s murderer, whose wealth keeps him free.

Avenge.

Task given, it lurches.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2018 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

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