Flash Fiction: The Unmoved

He had the look of the unmoved, the look of one of the steady, stone men, cut from the earth before memory came to being. Chiseled.

The unmoved stood outside the village, inward facing, reminding us that all too often, it is for the battles within ourselves that require the most vigilance.


Upon hearing my voice, he moved his head, disturbing the surface of his reverie. His eyes, nebulae ever changing in color and complexity, met mine.

The unmoved had no eyes, they simply knew and know. When you truly see, and understand, you have no need of eyes

“She’s beautiful”

He looked down at his granddaughter, sleeping in his arms.

William Stonewall Monroe


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