Late Flash Fiction

This is super late. But it’s inspired by Chuck Wendig’s blog post.

I didn’t know how to end it!



Agate doesn’t speak. I named him “Agate” because that’s what his skin looked like when I found him—tinged green and wet with blood.

I’m not sure how we talk. I’m not sure if it’s telepathy. Because he looks at me, and I just know what he’s saying, even though I don’t hear his voice in my head, or see pictures.

He tells me that it didn’t used to be like this. He used to be able to control it. But then he forgot.

He thinks he used to sing with his brother and sisters, and that they’d capture sailors, maidens, anyone walking along the shore. They’d take them into the sea. They’d do something—Agate says when he thinks about it, it makes his chest hurt—so they wouldn’t die. Then the humans would go up to the shore the next morning, usually thinking they’d had a tumble in the forest, or in the sand. Sometimes they’d leave with gifts—shells that the dead used to speak to them, or sea glass that showed the foggy reflection of a betrayer.

Agate tells me that he used to feel so full. Now he feels cavernous, empty spaces inside him that he doesn’t know what to do with. He doesn’t eat, and I’ve never seen him sleep.

He says that he’ll sing for me one day, when I’m ready.


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