100-Word Fiction: ‘Moomer’s Tent’

Moomer believed that happiness came in small things. If you couldn’t lift it yourself, then it was too unwieldy, too weighty. You should be able to pack happiness into a rucksack. But happiness was also infinite. The hills were happiness and you couldn’t lift them.

Moomer packed his tent into a rucksack and walked for miles. When he set up the tent he would look at the ground: at the grass, the earth. Inside the tent was a warm, orange glow. The breeze whispered through the canvas. He fell asleep. Surely their world could not touch him – not now, there.

Published by MW Bewick

Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com

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