“I’m not sure what I’m hungry for, but this definitely isn’t it.”
She meant me. Us. Our sacred union.
Playing house had become wearisome, mind-numbing work.
Our holy matrimony had leaked whatever holy it held.
We’d become seasick passengers, nibbling at remnants of a sacred ritual gone sour.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Spotlights irradiated the skeletal forms striding down the catwalk. His calciferous teeth gritted.
One donned a polyester coat. Too short. Insufficiently dark.
Another wore a black bikini. Ribcage was barely covered.
He swept out, his thick cloak fluttering, the scythe in his ossifying grip. At least nuclear war was approaching.
Joey tries to write a little. You can find him and abuse him at joeytoey.com.
In fair weather or foul, the mail must get through.
No one knows why anymore. It has been possible for a decade to send any message electronically and to replicate or actuate any object that might previously have required physical transportation.
I suppose the mail carriers have a good union.
This story was based on the prompt “in fair weather” on TypeTrigger.
“My stuff is in the truck already. Where’s yours?”
“I still think this is a colossal waste of time.”
“Look, I don’t make the rules. On Boxing Day we pack stuff, drive it around, and unpack it again. It’s tradition.”
“No, it’s idiotic.”
“Are you calling me stupid?”