Another, very short, entry for Flash Fiction Month. This micro-fiction edits itself down to atomic-fiction (or, perhaps, molecular-fiction, given that it does have a sentence, and not just a word or two). Many levels, however, can be discovered if you count on it, so to speak.
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Lately, the writer
deleted more than she typed. She’d write something, then bang, delete most of the remaining text. She left three words of thirty-six, just under ten-percent. Those three remaining words weren’t gold or silver pounded into jewelry by a hammer. They didn’t excite her. They just weren’t dead. The thirty-three words she cut annoyed her, as school had. They didn’t cohere. No living scene emerged from them.