Evan Quinlan


In Drabbles, Fiction, Short Stories on July 20, 2011 at 8:19 pm

She dances round and round, arms streaming blood.

He left a rose on the pillow instead of saying goodbye.  She never saw him leave; it was, to her, as if he’d become the flower.  Then the officer came to tell her his body would be brought home.

When they carried it, the coffin wilted and fell apart, pieces drifting like petals to the asphalt.  Nobody could explain but she knew: the body was only a remembrance.

She spins, bleeding from his embrace but she doesn’t care, she has him.  She laughs and the petals of his face seem to smile back.

  1. I read this over and over – en route between eye, the gatherer, and intellect, the interpreter, it becomes a brief “Felliniesque” film that enthralls me…I read this over and over…

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