@Spirit, yours was so sweet and so sad. I like that you wrote it sort of choppy, reflecting how someone really would be thinking in that situation. So sad, but some good flash fiction.

@Summer, I like the personalities of the toys and imaginary friend. Hearing them discuss the pandemic so calmly and curiously made it seem a bit more normal. Well done!

@aqua, yours is really good! Your description of the light and the way you wrote it, like you were in dream, was amazing. Good job! 

Keep posting guys! All your writing has been amazing!

Also, my recently adopted CAPTCHA, Roxy Foxy, says hwobt. Are you talking about The Hobbit in your adorable fox-ish voice? You have good taste, Roxy!

The weather right now reminds me of the sea. The weather right now is sun shining through feather-grey clouds, with touches of colbalt in between. It is the sea on a sunny yet rainy day, waves lapping up against bare feet on sand. It is the feeling of sitting on a balcony under a delicate curtain and the wind blowing your hair back, it is the feeling of reaching out for the scent of salt on the breeze. It is marble, it is ancient Grecian statues, it is refinement. The weather right now reminds me of pillars, water, salt, and so much more.

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Not exacty flash fiction, but I just really wanted to write something a e s t h e t i c rn so :p 

Did I do this right? It's 315 words. 

She cooked. Each morning, she awoke and went to the kitchen at five AM. She ate a small meal; a small portion from the food made last night. Then the oven is turned on and the stove flickers to life. Some days she made omelets. Some days she made loaves of bread. Some days she made something else entirely. Cooking was her life. 

At seven o’clock, the doors of the restaurant opened and customers poured into the little shop. She never saw them; she stayed tucked away in her small kitchen while various waiters and waitresses carried out the food. The people always ate it, no matter what she made. They loved it. They never knew about her. 

She cooked. Each day, she set aside a small portion from breakfast and ate it at eleven o’clock. Then she went back to work. The oven would be turned back on, the stove would flicker to life. Some days she would make soup. Some days she would make knishes. Some days she would make something else entirely. 

At one PM, lunch would begin to be served. Once, she had had dreams of grandeur: a famous restaurant, renowned worldwide. She never knew how loved her little shop was, how many people had come to rely on and take comfort in it. 

She cooked. Each evening, she set aside a small portion of lunch and ate it at five o’clock. Then she went back to work. The oven would be turned on, the stove would flicker to life. Some days she would make cholent. Some days she would make salads. Some days she would make something else entirely. 

At six o’clock, dinner would begin to be served. She no longer hoped, she no longer dreamed, she no longer lived, never knew all the lives she touched, tucked away in her small kitchen. Instead, she cooked. She cooked.

She cooked.

Tooooooooo theeeeeeeeeeeeeee tooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp!

Clutching the umbrella handle, she held me tight.  Raindrops fell onto the umbrella.  They slipped off at the edges, and quickly landed on the ground.  In the cold night, I could feel her warm breath against me.   She whispered into my ear, telling me to stay.  Embracing me tighter, she wrapped me into a warm hug. I closed my eyes.  I heard the rain making a tune in the night, as it fell from the grey heavens and onto the ground.  She was trembling, and the umbrella shook slightly, but I stayed dry.  Opening my eyes, I smile.  Whispering a soft goodbye to her, I leave her embrace and walk into the cold rain. 

Guys, please don't let this die! Your writing has been amazing this whole time. You have really inspired me. Keep it up!