Microfiction: Revenge, Served Warm

Sometimes, a story is short.

And sometimes it’s micro.

And sometimes it’s called:

Revenge, Served Warm

The fire starts with her eyes, and travels along her face. Eating, always eating. Crinkling, the paper folds. Crackling, the paper burns. Smoke covers the picture, and the edges come together, and the air tastes acrid. Finally, he drops the remains. It spirals down towards the table’s edge, still being devoured. Nothing touches the ground, and it spills into the air. Continue reading

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