“Oh, he loves me,” she said, “in that vague, distant, save-the-whales sort of way.”
She stared off into the emptiness of the world, then sighed.
“Yes, he loves me. He tells me so, endlessly.”
She pulled her thoughts closer and waited for his words to ring true, just once more.
Anita Reynolds is a writer in the wilds of Tennessee, though it’s not too wild, unless you count the four children.
Their mouths searching for the perfect angle. Their lips a breath apart. Their first kiss a heartbeat away. Finally.
A buzzing noise; cell phone. “Sorry, just need to check this one thing… ‘Hello,'” he says.
She knows something he does not. What he really said was, “Goodbye.” And that’s final.
Lou Romero submerged his toe into the tranquil waters of the art called writing. He discovered a raging, grinning tempest lurking there. It was a good place to search for peace. He takes creative writing classes at the University of New Mexico.
Grinning, Earl invaded Gomper Hall, sporting a fuchsia waistcoat with orange-striped breeches, a feathered fez. His belt had bells!
Earl slapped distinguished backs, strutted past mouths agape, open as though for fishhooks. Gentlemen fanned woozy ladies.
Earl was removed.
(Nobody expected that heist. We’re still taking inventory of the loot!)
C.B. Auder might someday dream of a life jam-packed with flexi-twill cuffs and apricot capes.
My wife spotted the chip in our car’s windshield first. “That’s a safety hazard,” she said.
“It’s no big deal,” I replied, but when I bumped out of the driveway it split into a larger crack. I was staring disgustedly at the crack when I missed the stop sign.
Crunch.