Glow Sticks by Barbara Westwood Diehl
Gradually, the outlines of wineglasses appear on a table.
Gradually, the outlines of wineglasses appear on a table.
My sister Tara says, “Tell me everything you know.” I do her one better and tell her to grab her keys.
The summer that the freak, lone wave crashed ashore was the same summer that Mika Carmichael went missing.
Spring 2022 Flash Fiction Contest – Honorable Mention Maybe she left her husband and started dating younger men, went out to the worst dive bar in town and wound up doing cocaine with a 25-year-old girl in the genderless bathroom.
After the last sold-out show of the weekend, I stood sentry behind the concession stand counter, pregnant belly pressed into the cash drawer, while the high school kid who helped out on weekends herded our pumped-up, arguing, theorizing, sugar-high, butter-fingered patrons out the double front doors, flung wide to street-lamp lit, movie-set perfect historic Main Street.