Who stole the heart from my tin chest? You were flagged, a person of interest:

• Pointy high-heel footprints
• Smell of haystacks
• Memory of a small dog

You flew away. I met a steely woman with lips of pewter, eyes of bronze. You were no longer of interest; a passing storm.

Tom Walsh writes these days from Cambridge, MA. His stories can be found in Emerge, Hobart Pulp, Lost Balloon, Bending Genres, HAD, Flash Frog, The Citron Review and elsewhere. He’s working these days on a flash-novel play about wildfire and fate. Say hi at @tom1walsh.bsky.social.