Love
Stalemate
He calls for the last time on a Sunday night in late September. His voice is soft and slurred, and before he asks I tell him that I’m not coming this time. But we both know it’s a lie. So I pull myself together as I have done many, many times before, and I drive through a chilly rain to our old spot. He’s already in our booth; ghostly, half asleep and tapping his lucky blue lighter against the Formica. The green neon light from the Seventh Street Diner sign spills across his still-handsome face.
By Jessica Conaway5 years ago in Fiction
Stupid Girl
He passed the small blue pipe to her, and she took it, making sure to brush her fingers against his in a lingering touch. She wanted his eyes on her, focused on the way her lips closed lightly around the base, how the fire from the lighter danced in her eyes, adding even more heat as she stared deep into his own.
By Megan Stewart5 years ago in Fiction
bread for the maestra.
i. As far as Nina and Kiki know, the first time I met their Father was at the Bakery. It was easy to assume, as Ryohei wasn’t exactly the most sociable person, and most of the few people he did know were Bakery regulars. In some way, it was the truth.
By A Baptiste5 years ago in Fiction
One More Chance
And there goes another one. Down that long aisle. This time, it’s as red as her painted lips. I watch her from my place, next to her soon-to-be husband. She’s beautiful in her off-the-shoulder gown, her veil covering just her eyes. But that blue doesn’t stay hidden. It never did.
By Megan Stewart5 years ago in Fiction
Light at the End of the Road
Trees blur into the dark background encroaching on the edge of the road. The sun sets below the horizon, bathing the sky in a fiery haze. Dark blue sky peaks through a break in the clouds. He looks up and sees the beginning twinkle of stars. He steps on the gas. The white car is a blur on the empty highway, a mirage to any onlooker.
By Megan Stewart5 years ago in Fiction
Together Tantalizing
They shared a table dressed with a pristine white cloth which draped gracefully over the edges, flowing ripples of silky material hovering just above the occupant’s knees. Everything was perfectly crafted in the establishment. The restaurant was dimly lit and thrumming with the gentle murmur of conversation from the surrounding tables, soft clinking sounds of silverware which nestled easily in the hand against the fragile ivory plates which nurtured the delicacies on offer. With food so well-crafted and perfectly balanced in flavor, salt and pepper didn’t need to adorn the tables tonight.
By Eloise Robertson 5 years ago in Fiction
