He’d loved hieroglyphs ever since Indiana Jones twisted one, a stone temple figure, and the walls rumbled open. Now he was just a guy with a sputtering Ducati motorcycle taking business classes who fell in love with a girl, and took a poetry class to be with her. He learned all glyphs, hiero or otherwise, were images, which could take form in any of the senses, so her scent in bed was a glyph, her touch was sometimes a glyph, and between her lips when she said goodbye, though he pleaded for her not to, his name was a glyph.



Robert Shapard is co-editor of the new anthology Flash Fiction International, very short stories from around the world. His stories have appeared in many journals.


Photo credit: maryaben

2 Responses to “Glyph”

  1. Tony Press says:

    This one felt like a graceful dance.

  2. Lynda Kirby says:


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