One Hundred words of Flash fiction.



Her skin is so pale as to be nearly translucent. Sometimes I wonder if she’s really there, or a ghost who will dissolve into vapor at the slightest touch. I never risk it. I must make sure. I whisper things into her nearly phantom ear. I whisper what I want. I whisper what I know she wants and cannot or will not say. The blush begins in her cheeks, a rosy, frosted red. It flushes her whole face and down her neck. That’s where I kiss her first, even before her lips, to feel her pulse. To know she’s real.



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