flash fiction

First it was jokes next to the workbench. Then it was hiding in a corner.  No one else knew the damage that one little object could do, but I did. And I ran from it; I ran from it when no one else did. Everyone laughed; they said I was being irrational. But I wasn't. I remembered a time in which that little object caused immense pain and suffering. No one else could remember such a day, but I could. I could see it vividly before my eyes again and again.  And I refused to go near any staple gun ever again.