flash fiction

I reached for my invoice, which Dr. George, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a soiled diaper, dropped into my hand.

Another image rises to us both: A man hunched before a TV, watching historical documentaries, correcting incorrect facts. Rasputin was not a priest, damn it.

At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.