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Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know about others, life, death, and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

Riding the Rails

Ghosts don’t walk unless they have to. A last resort kind of thing. The train, now that’s a luxury. I’ve ridden with beasts and humans, but only a handful of each can see my once handsome face and lank hair resembling ill-cut string.   There are those who scream and stuff fists or handkerchiefs into...

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