A fetal ball on freshly-turned loam, her tears seep into the soil. Amanda’s arms cradle her knees tight to her body.

Above: a mother – weeping, grieving, dying.

Below: another – reaching, loving, living.

Green shoots cover her fragile form. Mother is bonded with daughter.

She’ll sleep on the hillside soon enough.

Kevin G. Bufton has been writing flash fiction for nearly eight years and still hasn’t got it out of his system. He lives in Birkenhead with his wife and kids, who seem to tolerate him. He writes his darkest stories wearing his brightest shirts, and believes the world could do with more rum.