Lilly Fox was hungry. All her life, whatever happened, she'd get hungry again at some point. This is not so unusual. It happens to the best of us.
Lilly was someone who wrote stories. She'd written a bunch of strange ones, but she was determined to have a normal day, a day in which her life passed just like most anybody else.
It was something that could be done. She just had to do it. And now, finally, she was ready.
Writing hurt her hands. All that word-smithing broke down her body. She needed rest. She had in mind a short short-story. What could she write?
She looked out the window. The moment she did so, a raven swept down from the trees and landed on a bush in her yard.
What is it about this black bird?
Lilly considered the matter until fatigue overcame her, and she passed from the window to her bed. The following morning, she reported to work at the coffee bar. This went on for quite some time. Fifty-five years and several other work situations later, Lillie realized, she had done it. She had by and large lived a normal life.
But what was normal?
Normal meant paper airplanes didn't drive cars to work in place of humans. Normal meant time ran forward, not back. This and more. And Lilly was pleased. At eighty-two, she looked out her window. A sparrow landed on the eucalyptus.
And nothing had changed.
a sheaf of flashes