(Fiction)

On Thursday the streets filled with smoke. Not the billowy, cartoon plumes from a local blaze but the oppressive omen of a distant tragedy. Ash fell from the sky like a summer snowstorm, and the foothills resembled a faded etching. It smelled like a campfire stocked with incense. It smelled like a backyard barbeque.

Sunday, I met my neighbor…Massacre in pink

published in The Rag

Her silhouette tore a thin scratch against the sky.  A blinding sheen of white cloud hugged her skinny torso like a halo and even the dust kicked up by passing cars seemed aroused.  Her hair tossed and snarled in the wind and her lips never smiled.  By the time she extended her thumb towards my approaching car, I had already pulled over, taken her home, given her a bath and raised six kids with her before we died hand in hand of old age…The day that changed nothing

published in AbqArts

 

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