Flash Fiction: Stone Sun

It is all for a right turn of the head, mid-field, and there is the sun­set. The mud explodes from foot to foot, from foot to foot, and the now-gone sun makes a stain. My air­less mouth hangs in shock. My hands flop and a stone trips me back to last Friday, dis­cuss­ing the hard prob­lems of con­scious­ness with some stu­dents. Finally: a bird. What is it like to be a bat? What is it like to run and run?

Author: Ian Hocking

Writer and psychologist.

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