Okay so there has been a fire going on in the Shenandoah Valley and it’s causing everything to smell like smoke. Hence my new microcuento.
“The lingering fumes of burning foliage and the desert of ash they leave in their wake…”
Here’s a thought. How far can you push the boundaries of literature itself? That story (above) is just a sentence fragment. No verb involved. No action. Does that make it a poem or does it still remain a flash fiction?