I didn’t real­ly know the girl, so I’m not as sad as I should be. And any­way, time makes things blur­ry.

Dad is out­side work­ing on a hoop­ty car in the dri­ve­way, always work­ing on it. 

“He had con­sid­ered them his lads, but now that their brig­an­tine was a blot against the sun­set, he sat alone on the sand bar wish­ing them due course into some dis­tant hur­ri­cane or navy frigate.”

In mid-air the stereo con­tin­ues to thump like a heart-beat…

…my lungs still recov­er­ing, and my heart all in high pitched howls.…

He was a play­boy poet fop.

In a for­eign town it’s dif­fi­cult for a stranger to know you’re just tired, not crazy.

…so one morn­ing he start­ed mix­ing her into his day…

The sound of the ocean drew him onto the bal­cony.

A flash fic­tion reprint: Tania Hershman’s “And Bruised.”