Everyone left this morning. The house was standing still. I made my breakfast, and checked the door. There was no one to let out.
I took a break from writing, and went to say hello. Your rug was empty, so I put on some music, and turned back to the screen.
I popped in between my errands. I was hardly in the house. I started to tell you I'd be right back, and then said it anyway.
At naptime, I walked downstairs. My heart gave a little thump. I'd left lunch on the table by accident, but the food was still right there.
We shuffled through the door, arms full of bags and coats. I warned the boys, slow down, take care. But you weren't in the way.
After dinner I cleared the table. The scraps piled up uneaten. The plates, un-licked, filled up the washer, and I threw the scraps away.
At bedtime, I turned the lights out. I checked the doors were locked. The room was empty, but I said goodnight, and left the room alone.
We are delighted to nominate the following FlashFlood stories to the 2023 Pushcart Prize: ' The Doll House ' by Nathan Alling Long &...
CHICKEN +50 Buttermilk fried, the apogee of chicken, its chickeniest chickenness, rich gold with bite and crunch and tendern...
In case you missed any of the pieces we appeared during the 2023 FlashFlood, here's an index to everything. Happy Reading! ' They...
A shaft of sunlight fell across the worn herringbone floor, drawing his gaze upwards to the flawless blue sky beyond the row of windows, ...