Flash fiction

One who reads the stuff is tempted to see a homemade sign held at a rally for a political candidate that reads, The Silent Majority Stands with Trump.

The question is not so much, 'who's reading it?' as it is, 'who's writing it?'

It appears to have been written in a home three doors down the street, the one with the charming porch, its windows trimmed in red paint, turned into a B and B by new owners who no longer live there but who enjoy the profits of preservation.

There, in that house, in either the basement or the attic, either a man or a woman is writing flash fiction. What they write is all made of language, or it's made of some language, or all or some of its language is made of flash fiction.

The reader is then left to garner his or her own impression of a world created quickly, as the world was originally created, of fiery eruptions, lava, and chaos, but not to make too much of the language.