I could see the memory written all over his face. The last time I had been here. Parol. I shudder. Glad that meeting hadn’t gone according to plan.
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The room smells. It’s subtle, not strong or overpowering and not exactly unpleasant but there enough for it to be distracting.
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I grit my teeth. Try to look away. Try to focus on something else. Remind myself that I’m not supposed to be here. Remind myself how angry she’ll be if I intervene.
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Absently I reach for my pocket, toying with the letter there that’s no doubt beyond salvation, as wet as I got trying to change the tire.
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When he spoke, his lips ghosted passed her own, not quite touching, but near enough to burn. To sear. To blaze across her soul.
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The cry of cicadas is both a warning and a memory. Every year they bring with them the nostalgia of Christmas. Emerging on the curtails of a dry heavy heat to become a daily backdrop of ordinary outdoor life.
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I am infected with an alien. My body has become a treacherous landscape of nope. Within mere weeks the alien has taken command and turned all my senses traitor. My memories of food are full of pot holes and landslides and precarious roads that lead to a rather strong gag reflex unlike anything I’ve so far experienced.
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Changing a blown tire on a burning black bitumen road was not high on Tim’s list of “shit I want to get done today”.
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He kissed her. Not because he liked her, not even because he’d really wanted to, but because a demon had once told him to try.
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One weekend, three stories, 2,450 words. * Image Credit: http://d4n13l3.deviantart.com/art/Only-a-spaceship-196544367
