Cynthia Wilson lit tea candles around her living room. The rough edges of the lighter struck her thumb with force, but she was hardly attuned to the pain. With a series of flicks, small wicks came to life and burned through the darkness. The stillness in the apartment was almost paralyzing. Cynthia had just enough energy left to breathe a sigh of heaviness. Jonathan wouldn’t be home for another few hours. He hated the smell of candles.
Cynthia sank down into the couch that smelled of last night’s whiskey and sorrow. With a glass of cabernet and a tired hand, she took a sip and hoped it would help. The newly opened bottle sat atop the coffee table, next to the lighter and an ash tray overflowing with butts. Smoke was woven through the fabric of the couch, it hung on the drywalls and coated the surface of the television, but Cynthia had never been a smoker.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Congratulations to our 2023 Pushcart Prize Nominees!
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, ...
No comments:
Post a Comment