by Michael Seese
I was so busy on Friday, I almost missed the latest Janet Reid flash fiction contest. But I checked Saturday morning and learned that I needed to wrap 100 words around:
tank
chest
tray
sure
smith
I did most of it Saturday afternoon, and finished it Sunday morning.
Nobody wants to die in a tank.
Freedom is an ocean of opportunity you take for granted. Until you've been snatched from it, and your entire existence becomes subject to the will of another.
Feast / famine.
Day / night.
Life / death.
I smithed my own demise, using the blunt instrument known as my ego. Betrayed by my own cocksure spirit, I flirted with the uncrossable boundary. And I lost.
They found me chest-up on the floor. I didn't expect much. A short elegy, perhaps. Instead, my captors scooped me up in the green net, and unceremoniously flushed me down the toilet.
It didn't win. But it did make the "long list."
I'm happy to hear your thoughts.
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