Flash! Aa-ah! Go to hell and die!

"I'd just like to say, this blog sucks!"

"Hey, up yours, Friday Flash Fiction!"

"You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong. The rain-speckled blooms are nothing but the alluring, deceiving servants of memory that drape her soothing meadows, the grave of the soul. The vine grows in autumn, always in autumn, whose fiery, spectral whirlwind draws the curtain back. That's where love lives, rising aloft as the mayfly and, just as quick, descending to sleep underneath the stone whose November whispers quietly prick verdant words to no one out onto the frigid earth, dead before the ink dries, only to be reborn in rainbow hues."

"That's a bit pessimistic, don't you think?"

"Ah, but you see, to be in love is a completely different animal. We were speaking of love, my friend, that invisible, beautiful, horrid thing that endlessly cycles 'round inside, trapping us within its charms so easily as if we were American children on Halloween anticipating another handful of sugary treats in our tattered sack. Eat too much -- linger too long -- and you always pay the price. But to be in love, the real thing, this mayfly is now immortal, is it not? Brighter than Arcturus, whose rosy glow pales before your own. Until, of course, this love, like all red giants, expands, engulfing even the cosmic seas where you wrote your first lines to her, weighing heavier with the lugubrious passage of time, when at last everything is thrown, and the world is left barely luminous and you, alone."

"As I said, a bit pessimistic."

"Perhaps. I could go for a drink."

"Believe me, so could I. But just drink. No tapas, no talking, especially to the señoritas. One ruined mood is enough."