The man in the forest breathed his last few and looked on down at the mound of fresh dirt, tilled and black. The man held in his hands a spade, bloody and rusted, and in his mouth a cigarette. He looked down, he looked around, there was only darkness, only waving trees, shadows that moved in the absence of light, and the grave that he had dug and filled a moment ago.

The man in the forest dragged his last, exhaled it out, dropped the spade and the cigarette, took a pistol out of his pocket and (BAM!) shot himself.


A hundred word story, no less, no more; flash fiction, spur of the moment. thinks I wrote it like Bradbury (though I admit, he’s a master and I’m but a simpleton in comparison, and I’m lightyears away from writing as good—or even close to it). That website’s broken, methinks.

Still, it’s fun to fantasize. Copy and paste your excerpts and see, for fun, whom you write like. Hehe.

Peace out.