Flash Frenzy Round 23

Posted: June 7, 2014 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , ,

Welcome to Round 23!

This week, two-time Flash Master Casey Rose Frank is sitting in the judge’s seat.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

  1. C Connolly says:

    Shades of Laughter

    Em watches her skip and sway through the darkened corridor and into the sunlight. Soph giggles, swishing the white skirt of her new dress around her knees, put on especially to go play in, so it creates its own breeze. She begged so hard Em had to let her, just this once. She said she would be careful not to get it dirty. Em knew she’d try, at least. “Don’t go too far!” she warned, as Soph gambolled into the street, all limbs and laughter. Em hears it echo along the walls, as she stands there, though it has long since faded, out and away. She had been just behind her, just those couple of minutes. Too many; too long.

    Em watches Soph skip in laughter to darkness, unknowing. She cannot stop herself seeing, the moment playing on restless repeat. She sees without seeing the invisible hand of the perpetrator who took Soph, smiling; wrestled her off into the dark of perpetual, oblivious oblivion. The street had been silent when she stepped over the doorstep; no Soph, not even as a speck in the distance. She had known, then, though she had asked around the neighbours; called friends and casual acquaintances. No one had seen her or heard a sound. Perhaps the unseen assailant had silenced Soph somehow or other. Still, Em fancies she can hear as Soph’s laugh fades to nothing, as she is dragged off into the distance.

    Em knows how it ends now, has seen it for herself. It does not, cannot – has not – helped her. She sees the ragged remnants of the white dress, once pristine, now dirt covered; hem blackened by grit and mud on the slab before her. It bears the bloody stains of the struggle she was not there to see, though she bears witness to it now, silent observer. She knows Soph fought to keep her dress clean – that she tried to the end. The bruised body tells its tale, though the stare is sightless blank. Her patent shoes are missing, likewise socks; a toe nail torn away. She should have been – was – just behind her. Too long; too late.

    (360 words)


  2. Cartwheels to Heaven

    I can hear her running up and down the corridor singing those pop songs with really lewd lyrics that I’m hoping she doesn’t yet know what they mean. Sam, my husband wants me to go out and read her the riot act. He didn’t fight in the war to have to listen to all this noise. I want to say “no, you fought for her freedom” but the grumpy old sod wouldn’t appreciate that and I don’t want to hear any more of his complaints about the younger generation.

    I love to hear her. I love the way she cartwheels. I remember doing that years ago my dress falling over my face exposing my school knickers. Not realising our neighbour Mr Pickering was taking photos of me with his old Brownie. In his dark room he’d produce images to dispatch all over the county in plain brown envelopes. My Mammy nearly killed him when some distant cousin in County Kildare wrote her to ask if it was me. Mr Pickering walked with a limp for ages and I found his camera in tiny bits at the end of our garden by the composting bin. Shame really I would have liked to have taken photos of my own, the Fairies at the bottom of the garden, Bridie’s rabbit with all its babies, Sister Mary Evangeline’s beard. The last one makes me laugh out loud. Sam looks at me like I’ve gone mad, maybe I have. How can you be eighty years of age but still know how it feels to be a ten year old?

    I open the flat door and yell “Darcy”

    What a pretentious name to christen a child from this estate, although I’m sure she’s never had holy water anywhere near her.

    “Yes Mrs Higgins”

    I hand her a fifty pence coin.

    “Mr Higgins wants you to have this, he loves hearing your singing”

    She smiles the smile of an angel. That’s what Sam fought for in the war to end all wars.

    335 words

  3. All Things Must Pass

    Bob was alone in the end, lying in a private room with a morphine feeder button in one hand and the photograph in the other. His eyesight was fading, like everything else, but he knew it by heart anyway; Grainy and blurred, it was still precious to him, the final CCTV shot of Mel’s flight from the hotel corridor.

    Drifting, growing numb, he tried to picture the colour of her eyes and the way she had worn her hair that day, but he could no longer recall them, just the way they appeared on the police report. He’d read it so often over the years, allowing it to replace the reality in the hope it would deaden what he had always known;

    It was his fault.

    He’d planned a family outing but Mel wanted to stay by the pool with the German kids, and they’d argued. He’d shouted. Screamed. They were going out, the cab was booked, and he was not going to waste another day sitting around the hotel watching his wife and his daughter flirt with some bloody Eurotrash.

    Jen had slapped him, started an argument of her own, and Mel had run out of the room and the hotel, out of their lives. She left them to a half life of interviews, consulate meetings and return visits that swallowed his business and their marriage. That, and the endless unknowns;

    If he’d said yes…

    If he’d followed her…


    He’d prayed and dreamed, seen a glimmer of hope every time they pulled another poor girl from some basement prison twenty years on, but all the while, his guilt had been turning inwards, raising a rebellion in his cells, robbing him of that last chance.

    And now he was supposed to make his peace, admit that the hunt was over and that he would never know what she found, out in that too-bright sunshine.

    But he couldn’t let go of her.

    He would not let go.

    He held the photograph in one hand, the morphine clicker in the other, and he squeezed them both, and he knew that though there was no more life, there was still hope.

    360 words

  4. Image Ronin says:

    The Sinner

    The silence after the storm stretched out. Disturbed only by the solemn clock on the mantelpiece, whose declarations thickened the air around Emma, as she lay, fetal like, on the armchair. Her father’s disappointment evident from the dark bluish clouds floating on her skin.

    Tonight’s carnival had been the flash point. Such a small desire, such a little thing, yet she had been foolish, selfish. Demanding that he allow her to attend, forgetting that such things were unseemly for a girl of her age.

    The posters that had sprung up around town had been the catalyst. Memories of being young, standing within the crowd. Overwhelmed by the colourful floats amidst a sea of lights and candyfloss. A cold dark night exotically scented by onions and hot dogs. She had been tentative when asking permission, hopeful that her assurances that she would behave would be enough.

    He just glared, his knuckles whitening as he grasped the Book. His dry whispers told her how disappointed he was at her greed. How could she assure him of such things when wickedness plagued her line?

    How she was just like her, disobedient, defiant.


    She had pleaded. She had been hurt too. Mother had left her as well. Allowing her to go to the carnival.

    Knowing he would go looking for her.

    Using their daughter as a diversion.

    Escaping him.

    That was when his eyes glazed over, the vein awakening on his forehead. He cursed her for her sin. Raising the Book above his head. She had curled up, apologising for being weak. Yet blow after blow rained down, till his breath was labored and her heart was broken anew once more.

    Now he was in the kitchen, the storm still rumbling judging by the clatter of cutlery and the slamming of cupboards. She could disobey; she was old enough to leave home.

    Yet how could she betray the man who had given up everything for her? Cared for her. Loved her.

    How could she leave him all alone?

    Emma closed her eyes, becoming once more a little girl running outside to watch a carnival.

    Unaware she was about to ruin everything.


    358 words

  5. Sal Page says:

    If it wasn’t for the wings

    Ruby had started leaving the window open at night. With summer here, the stuffy air gave her headaches that hung around all day. There was a price to pay though. Fear kept her awake. Bees, wasps, moths and bats could all come through an open window. And they weren’t the only things that scared Ruby.

    If it wasn’t for the wings, Ruby wouldn’t have realised it was a fairy. They caught the light for occasional split seconds of colour – petrol on a puddle’s surface – then disappeared again. Fascinating. She had landed on the glass top of the dressing table, skidded about then glared at Ruby, tucked up in bed. They stared at each other. The fairy-girl’s expression was cross and a little puzzled.

    Telephones, sunglasses, flags and buses. Dogs and lawn-mowers and rabbits. Butterflies, velvet curtains, postmen, cardboard egg boxes and drinks with bubbles in. It was easier to say what she wasn’t scared of. Then there was her main fear. Outside. A place whirling with all the other fears. Possibilities around every corner.

    And Ruby was scared of corners. Breathlessness, rising panic, flashes of heat and cold sweats. And something she ought to remember but couldn’t grasp hold of for long enough to examine in detail.

    Ruby reached behind her surprise visitor and slammed the window shut. She couldn’t believe she’d done it. She was usually scared of the window. The fairy-girl jumped. Her wings shuddered and shimmered red, orange and blue. She flew up, settling on the lampshade. It swung back & forth. Heart hammering in her chest, Ruby beckoned to the fairy-girl but she didn’t seem to understand. Their eyes met. Ruby smiled. Then she sneezed. Dust from the lampshade.

    Startled, the fairy-girl left the lampshade and slipped through the slightly open door. Ruby ran after her, scared of falling but more scared of letting her new friend go. A flash of iridescent yellow and turquoise caught her eye as she leapt the corner of the stairs. There were no windows in the hallway. The fairy-girl would be stuck down there.

    But someone had left the front door wide open and she was gone. Outside.


    360 words

  6. Voima Oy says:

    The Girl in the Walls
    354 words

    She moves in the walls. I can hear her, little feet running, like mice at night.

    She comes and goes as she pleases. Who is she? Where does she come from? Is there a portal in the hall, a doorway opening? That has to be where she comes from. Why else do the cats stare at the walls?

    I have seen her, this girl, racing down the hallway. She is shy and elusive, but she smiles as she runs away. She first appeared on a summer afternoon, when the light was slanted at just the right angle. I felt a warm breeze, like breathing. There was the smell of honeysuckle, lingering.

    She made me think of my best childhood friend. Those days when we were 10 years old together. She’s married, now, with her own kids, too. We try to keep in touch. It’s harder these days, we tell each other. We are responsible people, grown-ups.

    My husband has also seen the girl, and he says she looks a bit like me. He says he can feel her around him in the evenings, especially after a hard day at work. Sometimes, he can almost touch her but she darts away, laughing, just out of reach.

    The boys call her their fairy sister. She often leaves them gifts–rose petals or moth wings, a teacup, clumps of mud and dry leaves.

    Could she be one of the fairies, a fairy child? I know she’s quite fond of playful tricks. She likes to hide my earrings and rearrange all the books on the bookshelves. What does she want with our socks? Who else leaves the lid off the jar of peanut butter? She’s the one who drinks the last of the milk.

    Yes, I am so happy to share her with the fairies. I welcome her visits and tricks. She is like the girl I wished for, an exchange for the one we couldn’t keep. I thought my life had ended, too. Then, one day, I heard laughing and running in the walls.

    I can’t imagine what life would be without her. She’s part of the family, now.

  7. David Shakes says:


    360 words

    Yes… her name.

    Perhaps, unconsciously, her parents’ naming of Beatrice foreshadowed her unique ability. She’d pronounced it ‘Beat-wicks’ growing up – portentous in hindsight.
    I’d asked her about it once, but she felt it was immaterial: ‘neither here nor there,’ she’d said – enjoying the duality her gift lent the idiom.

    Her mother told me that she’d always come and gone as she pleased.
    “How could I have stopped her? I’ve lived my life in constant fear for her,” she’d confided once as we sat together wondering when (if?) Bea would return.

    The first time was in her apartment building. She’d run ahead in the hallway. Her mother said the air had shimmered, the world turned monochromatic as Bea turned the corner -“Like she took all the colour from the world with her.”

    I’ve experienced that, physically and metaphorically.

    Her mother had turned the same corner, afraid she was experiencing a seizure – only to find an empty street. Bea vanished.

    Before she could panic a gamma burst brightened the world unbearably, then a small voice from behind: “How did you get in front, Mama?”

    As Bea grew, so her sojourns grew lengthier. She could bring back nothing but stories. Living or inanimate, nothing could traverse the veil with her – or so we thought.

    What sort of stories you ask? Outlandish if you hadn’t seen her passage to ‘that dreadful place’ as her mother called it. The night we’d sat waiting, she’d gone further. She confided she thought it may be Hell itself.

    I think maybe she was right…

    I’m sorry, the stories – such tales! Actors had been presidents; cars still ran on petrol!

    Darker stuff.

    Crime was rife and people scared, selfish. Greed abounded, was celebrated!
    A world of wars where the twin towers had fallen and resources were squandered not shared.

    Why go? I asked the same thing.

    “Because I come back.” was her only answer.

    It was like an addiction. A sickness.

    And that’s what she was finally able to bring back -sickness.

    When they dropped those bombs there, the radiation travelled back here in her.

    So tell me, can you save her?

  8. Sign And Date
    360 words

    They say time heals all wounds. And it does for the most part. Time can soften the serrated edges of a ruptured heart, it can round-off those needles of regret that puncture your mind.

    Spring becomes summer, autumn becomes ten years later. Time moves on and we did too. But some memories, some decisions, refuse to be erased by the hands of a clock. They linger, they point an accusing finger, they convict.

    I wonder what she looks like now. Maybe she has her mom’s thick mahogany curls and her aquiline nose. Maybe she has my large forehead and narrow chin.

    She would be in the fifth grade by now. What is she learning? Is she a prodigy at math like her mom or does she have a passion for history like me? We don’t know.

    My wife likes to imagine her taking art classes, learning to draw landscapes or a vase of tulips. A talent that runs thru the family for generations. I can picture her having tea parties with her friends, cups with princesses imprinted on them pouring invisible liquids.

    Maybe someday she’ll have a Facebook page. We can watch from afar as she grows into her teen years, when Barbie dolls are replaced by shifty boys. Maybe her first heartbreak will become a status update and we can grieve for her through the glow of a soulless machine.

    We signed the papers a decade ago but I can still see my trembling hand clutching that cheap plastic pen and my illegible scrawl at the bottom in blue ink. Young, broke and still wanting our freedom, we kissed her on the cheek and handed her over to a couple from Cincinnati. They fawned over the child as we sought an exit.

    Time can be a fraudster, a mountebank. It moves forward whether you’re ready or not. It tells you that your pain will be assuaged if you can hang on. If you endure the cataclysmic beginning then, eventually, you’ll be able to forget. That’s the greatest con of time, the forgetting part. You don’t. We didn’t.

    Sometimes we call her Lily. Or Jennifer. Maybe today she’ll be Abigail.

  9. Jacki Donnellan says:


    355 words

    I used to see her behind me in the mirror. Her pigtails twizzled out from her head and she’d laugh as I leant in with the tweezers to scan my chin for hairs.

    “Popped up one by one once the menopause hit!” I’d explain, turning to face her, but by then she’d always gone.

    And sometimes, while I made my way slowly over to my chair, she would skip like a playful dolphin around the lurching bows of my zimmer.

    “I’ve got a lot slower since I had that last fall,” I might say, lowering myself carefully onto my orthopaedic cushion. But by the time I was sat and settled, the room was always empty.

    And then I hadn’t seen her, not since moving here, until I woke the other day and found her standing by my bed, staring down at me.

    At first I didn’t notice her, confused still by the unfamiliar plain walls; the starched blue sheets. And then there she was, towering over me in platform heels, blonde highlights tumbling over her shoulders. The clearness of her skin just took my breath away, and her eyes were as bright as sapphires.

    And I glimpsed a disgusted, pink curl in her top lip as she looked down at me, and her nose was wrinkling at the smell that I knew was rising from my sheets.

    “Just look how beautiful she is!” I’d pleaded, as someone came bustling into the room.

    But by then, of course, she was no longer there.

    And then I didn’t see her for a while, yet I see she’s here, today. She’s all pigtails and giggles again, and this time, she comes and plants herself right in front of my chair.

    “Will I ever see you again?” she asks, her eyes wide.

    I nod weakly, and wink. “Of course you will,” I say. “Just keep looking in the mirror.”

    She smiles.

    I smile.

    “And one day, perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of me behind you, laughing!” I am saying, or maybe she is saying, as we both escape joyfully through the opening door, and out into the beckoning sunlight.

  10. Giggles

    341 words

    The giggling woke me. I hadn’t been sleeping well, or I never would’ve heard it. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. There it was again—a bubbly sound, definitely a child’s giggle. There shouldn’t be any children, I thought as I kicked back the covers. Not here. That would be too cruel. I pulled on a robe and stuffed my feet into my slippers. The floor was cold. We were encouraged to stay in our rooms at night: “For your own safety,” the keeper always said. I was always careful when I snuck out of my room.

    The hall was empty, but I half expected those creepy twins to appear, the ones from that film about the writer who lost his mind. I smiled at the thought. And waited. The air around me stirred, as if someone had brushed by me. I peered into the shadows just as something rumbled by outside, probably a truck. Headlights swept through the giant window at the end of the corridor. There it was: a slim figure turning the corner. Were those wings? I rubbed my eyes. A desperate voice inside my head begged me to return to my room and hide under the covers, but instead, I followed. I had to find out what that thing was.

    I shuffled down the corridor, my slippered feet whispery on the old tiles. I turned the corner and gasped. The winged creature glanced over its shoulder and smiled, revealing its pointy teeth; they glittered in the darkness. I tried to pull myself away, but my legs wouldn’t move. The creature and I stared at each other, my skin prickling.

    The creature beckoned me, and I could not resist. It loped in front of me, drawing me with it. At the end of this corridor was a door I had never seen. The creature gestured for me to open it. I did as I was told. A wave of heat and light hit me. Tiny hands pushed me forward. The giggling followed me into the fire.

  11. milambc says:


    Patrice just wanted to play. Better than staying cooped up inside that motel room, which smelled like piss-stained Marlboros and Old Spice.

    And prostitutes. Prostitutes had a distinctive smell — sweat and mom’s makeup counter.

    Dad’s only gift to me that I remember receiving was a dictionary. A prostitute is a “person, typically a woman, who engages in sexual activity for payment.”

    I didn’t understand what they were doing; sometimes when I stayed by the door to listen, it sounded like what those two turtles were doing when mom took me to the zoo two summers ago.

    “Here girl, three bucks, run down and getcha self a cola or sumthin’,” he would say.

    The vending machine had become my motel friend. I liked to call him Moxley. Because a motel janitor once said I had moxie but it sounded like “moxley” due to his nasal, slurred voice.

    Moxie meant “force of character, determination, or nerve.”

    When I asked dad what it meant, he said, “Means a man wif a set o’ balls.”

    Janitor probably said I had moxie since he caught me kicking the side of the old vending machine because my Butterfingers got caught on the spiral. Had to do something and I inherited my mom’s flash anger.

    Gah, one time, dad came home with another woman’s perfume on his neck and mom hit him on the side of the head with one of her baking sheets. And the oatmeal raisin cookies were still on there. I ate one off the floor, anyway.

    Went with old reliable again, Butterfingers, and skipped back to the room. Listened by the door to see if dad was finished with his prostitute friend.

    And I heard a sound I had never heard before. Like a gurgling noise. Reminded me of those nights when mom would make me swoosh that Listerine stuff in my mouth. Then a scream and I knew what that was.

    Footsteps and dad was at the door.

    “Get outta here, girl,” he said, his hand held up, bloody.

    Earlier in the day, I learned a new word. Trepidation, “a feeling of fear or agitation about something that may happen.”

    I ran.

  12. “The Day She Came to Hate the NRA”
    360 words

    Miranda made a very loud noise when she set her dolls down on her father’s desk.

    Daddy took out his ear buds and looked up from his number book. “Hello, sweetheart. Getting tired of playing?”

    “No, Daddy,” said Miranda. She pulled a tiny brush through her favorite doll’s hair. “I never get tired of playing.”

    “Oh, you don’t, do you?” Daddy smiled and put his buds back in.

    The loud noise came again, but Miranda was sure she didn’t make it. She sat up straighter in her chair. “Is it a thunderstorm, Ele?” she asked her stuffed elephant.

    When the sound came a third time, Daddy leapt to his feet and ran over to grab her. His eyes were wide. “Ele, get behind my desk, quickly.”

    Two more times it thundered, much louder. “Is the thunder getting closer, Daddy?”

    Daddy scooted a bookshelf in front of his door. “It’s not thunder, sweetheart.”

    “What is it?”

    With shaking hands, Daddy loosed his tie. He coughed. “Gunshots.”

    “Like from a,” Miranda thought for a moment, “trayquilizer gun?”

    “Sort of.” There was another gunshot, so loud it hurt Miranda’s ears. “But this gun puts you to sleep forever.”

    Miranda shuttered. “Forever?” She hugged Ele tight.

    The door rocked as someone knocked on it hard. The bookshelf tipped forward slightly.

    Miranda clutched at her ears. There was a hole in the door just above the top bookshelf.

    “Lord,” said Daddy. He whispered something Miranda couldn’t understand as he knelt in the corner.

    Books spilled from the shelves as the whole thing fell over and the door swung open. A giant man walked into the room holding a big metal tube. Miranda ducked away.

    Daddy cried out, but Miranda could hardly hear it because the last gunshot made her almost as deaf as her grandmas. Her heart pounded in her chest.

    Miranda dropped her dolls and ran out from the desk, out of the door, into the hallway. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her. One gunshot, two, three. She kept running.

    At the end of the hallway she turned and ran into something.

    The policeman hugged her tight as she cried.

  13. zevonesque says:

    The Corridor
    by A J Walker

    Amanda rested her back on the window, ignoring the damp cold seeping through her T-shirt. She stared back at her fridge. It always started with the fridge.

    ‘Let’s do this,’ she said.

    She strode over to her white slab nemesis and snapped back the door revealing the contents. The lines of the shelves seemed to lead away to distant nothingness. The bright plastic white inside was only punctuated by the two eggs in the door shelf; like closed eyes to Amanda.

    There was still no milk.

    Amanda’s black coffee and the two eggs mocked her.

    She wished she could close her eyes, but her visions were too clear when they were shut. Night time brought her nothing but fear. Fear of the corridor.

    She watched the coffee thin to nothingness as she spilled it down the sink.

    “Come on! I’m a grown woman,’ she said clasping and unclasped her hands. She started to walk in quick circles around the kitchen, needing momentum.

    Milk. A simple need.

    Life was just draining from her like the film in the sink, barely hanging in.

    Amanda needed milk in her coffee. She needed to go to the shop, to leave the flat; that was it. She punched the wall, bloodying her knuckles.

    The corridor. A primordial fear.

    She heard voices in the corridor. Laughter. She could never hear what they said, but they were always talking about her and laughing at her. She accepted that.

    As she stood before the front door it seemed to dissipate to nothing, her flimsy protection from the corridor a mirage. She knew where it led. It was driving her to madness. Two eggs and a black coffee mocking her.

    ‘I can do this!’

    She turned the lock, closing her eyes, trying to listen for Jessica. It was killing her in painful baby steps.

    There was a flash of a silhouette, a phantom of the girl running away, She saw this image in the corridor every time now, a trick of the light, a glimpse of a ghost – Jessica still holding on to her home.

    Jessica would never come back, but it seemed she would always be there.

    360 words

  14. drmagoo says:

    Look at her, her speed, her grace, the smooth way she takes the corner, leaning inward to push around the turn at just the right angle. She runs like she was designed for it, never out of sync, never out of breath.

    I loved her, of course. Everyone did – her teachers, her friends (although they’d never say such a thing, not at eleven, not with middle school looming with its cliques and its judgment), the boys on the street – but me, most of all. It had been just the two of us since cancer decided it needed to take her mother more than we needed her, but really it was me with her.

    I was in awe of her the day she was born. No, she wasn’t supernaturally intelligent, or a baby who never cried sixteen times between dusk and dawn, but just the fact that she existed, had come from nothing and was suddenly this person, this screaming pink drooly pile of possibility. Who could stand a chance against something like that?

    There she is again, coming down the hallway. I don’t know why she runs so much at home, when there are trails and tracks and all those things just half a block away at the park, but as soon as she had discovered what running was, she’d started making laps through the hall and the kitchen and the dining room. Couldn’t be more than a hundred feet or so, but around she goes, again and again and again. Back, well, before, she would run into her mother, carrying laundry or coming in from work, and there would be that test of wills. But her mother always let her win, for the same reason we all did.

    I’d set the desk in my study so I could watch her run, silhouetted against the setting sun as she made that turn again. Sometimes, when I’d catch her in profile, I’d see her mother’s nose, and feel that ache and anger and passion rise up, because the past is never really past. But mostly, she was just herself, capable of anything, gliding into the future as smoothly as she ran.

    360 words

  15. […] Prompt: https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/2014/06/07/flash-frenzy-round-23/ […]

  16. […] entry in the Angry Hourglass Flash Frenzy Round 23. The story needed to be inspired from the photo below and the word count max […]

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