Fiction

Grandma used to make lemonade.

It wasn't hot for once. Ohio remains hot every summer but the night seems to be like cold water poured over a fire pit:

the heat lightens up but the smoke of it hangs in the air, the remnants of what it was before.

You and me, hand in hand like always. From the moment I met you, I’ve felt safe and I can’t really explain why. Maybe it’s the way your whole face smiles when I round the corner, maybe it’s the way we are always laughing.

“Mama, will you tell me my story again?” Asks the little girl in my lap.

Silence, loud, deafening silence. I can’t look her in the eyes, but I can’t rip mine away, so I stare. It’s not awkward or anything, I mean she’s staring too.

There was cedar in the beginning and then there were candy canes. 

“Lizzyyyy….,” said Marie, twisting her chair around. “I thought I told you to get new shoes,” Marie says. Lizzy looks down at her shoes, caked with dirt and grime, broken from the hours she spent working on her family’s farm.

On that night, I stole the stars of the galaxy. Billions of them, each one unique, and put them into her eyes.

The fiery sunset gleamed in the heart of the evening while the sparkling rain reflected its capturing glow.

The night air is filled with a strange energy. The air is sharp and cuts your skin like a tiny razor.

I wake up and stare at the bland ceiling, not moving for a while. I don't know how long I was sitting there, there are no clocks in here. No clocks, no posters, no windows, save for the small, barred slit in the top of the wall.

It had been more than two days since a drop of water had touched his lips. He was beginning to think that he was forgetting what water tasted like, if it tasted of anything.