I’m driving home after midnight thinking of Wanda and her neat house and saying maybe I could do that? Someday. Or maybe I didn’t say it, just thought it. Maybe I’m thinking of Samantha and Tabitha and the way I wish I had the power to wiggle my nose and move things. Like Mary and…
Category: flash fiction
Over the Hills
She resolved not to cry. Not then. Not ever. No matter what he did. He could be mean as he wanted, smash everything into a million little pieces. “Mustangs are not orange,” her sister said, and wagged her finger at her. They were painting the horse models they’d gotten for Christmas. Her brothers had gotten…
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