Flash Fiction: Watermarked
© Anne McDonald
By Lara Southern
Last night I dreamt the inside of my skull was made of broken mirrors, and that if I craned my neck back and opened my mouth wide, I could see the moon through the hole in my head. Its craters remained coffee cup stained against the insides of my eyelids in the morning, as sunlight and small footsteps announced the day.
I squeezed them tighter, willing obsidian renewal, ignoring obligation, and all auditory cues to my responsibilities in the next room. After too few moments, the sound and sunlight prevailing, I winched my eyes open, blinking against the moonlit watermarks that clouded my vision, negatives of an undeveloped dream.
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