The crackling campfire illuminated her birth name, carefully inscribed in large, looping cursive.
She hadn’t expected this letter. Not after the way she’d left.
A dry sob clogged her throat—or was it simply smoke from the fire?—as she dropped the envelope, unopened, into the heart of the blaze.
Devon R. Widmer is a grumpy graduate student by day, a scribbling daydreamer by night, and a sleep deprived parent full time.
In the morning fog, the ocean bleeds into the sky like a watercolor painting. Below, Daeidra walks the sandy shore alone. She has forbidden me to accompany her.
A solitary tear trickles down my cheek as I watch her embrace the waves and dissolve into a spray of sea foam.
Devon R. Widmer is a grumpy graduate student by day, a scribbling daydreamer by night, and a sleep-deprived parent full-time.
Thirteen months after his wife’s passing, the words appeared, scratched deep into her writing desk:
The streets are paved with flesh and bone
The mortar’s mixed with blood
The stench of death pervades the air
Displaced eyeballs glare and stare
I cannot find you anywhere
Out here among the dead.
Devon R. Widmer plans to continue writing at least until the end of this life.
“Any last requests?”
Flames licked the dragon’s scaly lips as she leered at the knight splayed beneath her talons.
“Just one.” The knight tossed his golden curls. “Try not to singe my hair.”
The notice hung from the cathedral gate:
Funeral Service Tonight
For Sir Primpsalot the Vain
(Closed casket)
Lady Devon the Thoughtful has never met a dragon but doubts one would be inclined to humor a pretentious knight.
At the age of nine, Kathy begged her parents for a silver jumpsuit, boldly declaring she was going to be a space explorer when she grew up.
But a single day spent dodging her classmates’ taunts banished that jumpsuit to the back of the closet, never to be worn again.
Devon R. Widmer, a graduate student in chemistry, is currently hard at work resuscitating her childhood dreams.
On moonless nights, Nian descends from his mountain lair to feed.
Last month, the beast took my lover.
Tonight, while the others tremble behind barricaded doors, I stand at the village gate, clutching a firecracker destined for Nian’s sensitive nose. The wind ripples my crimson dress as the monster approaches.
Just for the record, Devon R. Widmer would probably be one of the people trembling behind barricaded doors.
“Crud!” The woman slammed her hand down on the flimsy plastic tray, sloshing her complimentary beverage onto the seatback in front of her.
Her husband glanced up from his SkyMall catalogue. “Something wrong, dear?”
“I forgot to buy a souvenir magnet. Now it’s like we never even went to Hawaii!”
Devon R. Widmer, a graduate student in chemistry, spends far too much time worrying about remembering events and not nearly enough time enjoying them (as evidenced by a refrigerator littered with souvenir magnets).