In this new world, the colors carried their own sounds, the air tasted like gingersnaps, and birds tweeted the blues.
A gruff gnome told Philip, “You are the chosen one.”
Nancy from HR hovered above, frowning. “We know you’re on drugs. We have to let you go. Get some help.”
L.L. Madrid lives in Tucson with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and the occasional scorpion. Her work can be found lurking in places like Flash Fiction Magazine, Dali’s Lovechild, Literary Orphans, and in shoe boxes under her bed.