I died when I was 28 years old. I stirred one morning at 7:01 am, shrieked inside my head, and passed out before my eyes opened. If I’d woken up an hour earlier, I’d have felt the warm gush of sleepy air, as the hallway heater came to life (Alexa set a reminder to clean the heater vent).
She walked down the road, acutely aware that the men were following her. The black dress billowed in the night air, as she stepped nimbly over the cracks in the sidewalk. 10 feet behind, the men kept a steady pace, reeking of fried onions and cheap liquor.
Ugh! Alcohol. In her line of work, she’d seen more than a fair share of drunks and losers, who didn’t think twice before getting behind the wheel or punching a woman. Grimacing, she pulled her cloak closer.
Two dark stories, I wrote recently, are going to be published as part of a MicroFiction Anthology series, by Black Hare Press. One of them is apocalypse themed, and the other is a love story with a twist.
I’m beyond grateful. A lot of work goes into writing these tales, and what better reward than getting your work accepted by a big publishing house!