Ochre Idyls

Poems, Haiku/Tanka, Short Fictions

Another flash. Bright. Quick. Then rain again. Night. A scoped rifle in his hands. He pulls his eye from the lens. Clears his head. It's context, he thinks. Why am I here? A sense of observation. Of himself. Internal escape. A word. Assassin. He is not himself. The rain still falls.

  • Fiction
  • 51 words
  • < 1 min
  • July 04, 2025