Something moved in the shadows. I held my breath. An hour past midnight on new moon night, read the unsigned note. Bring no lamp. It was a risk: death for you, censure for me—and a lifetime of mourning. “Come.” Your voice floated from the darkness. I shouldered my pack, and we ran. Featured image by … Continue reading In my father’s garden
I am beautiful, I know.
They lit the signal fire in the night.
We had come so close. We rationed proteins, we doled out water in scant mouthfuls. If we were careful, there would be just enough. Then we ran out of fuel. Outside, a blue-green world rotates tantalizingly out of reach. I lick my dry lips and send another mayday.
It is nearly light and I have not slept. Pine boughs scrape the windowpanes. “Stay,” she murmurs when I stir, but the name she whispers is not mine. She drifts in and out, clutching the covers to her chest. Frost limns the window, and yet I lie here and burn.
Christine Hanolsy 