Thorn Apple
Ruthanne stopped apologizing years ago.
Flash
Station Seven
The air tastes like ammonia and bleach and something underneath both.
The Phone
I can make it ring.
The Lighter
She watches the blue at the root of the flame.
Deconstruction
The box says forty-two pieces. I’ve counted three times
The Final Meal
The room is cold. A hospital cold that lives in the walls.
The Last Mercy
Three flowers, a knife, and the burden of knowing what mercy costs.
Free-Fall Forward
She whispered it aloud. Her voice. Lower, gruffer.
The Voicemail
Forever now. Somehow that made it matter less.
Red Dot
Mirror. Signal. Breathe.
The Acknowledgement
Between panes of glass, choice slips away.