Ochre Idyls

Poems, Haiku/Tanka, Short Fictions

Her relief went without apology, hands wringing as she answered.

Who do you report back to.

I don't know them. They call on the phone. I call them back.

The number?

Here, I've sent it to you.

She laid her phone back on the table.

Time was slipping like sand through his fingers.

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