Short Fiction
setting sun, up into the hot amber, up inside Nick, Nick smelling magical thyme, Nick rubbing her hands with a thick incantation: “This is our life. Everything else, before and after, was a dream. We’re awake now. And we’ll have children. Lots of children. Boys and girls. Enough to fill the whole house. Everything except now — it doesn’t matter, Sophy. It didn’t exist. It was just a dream. We’ve always been here. And we’ll stay here. Always. Right here on this farm. This is our life. I love you, Sophy. I’ve always loved you. I’ll always love you.” In the sun’s steep angle, everything burns, breathes, even the rocks and stones along the uneven road alive. “Look,” Sophy says, looking down at her arms, Nick’s face. “Look at us.” They are gold and brown, red and blazing. Immortal beings. Fantasm.
Atticus Review│Get Lit: Round 1
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