Four nights straight the stranger sits in her section paying for cans of Pabst from a pile of tens. Friday night, they park at the reservoir and pass a silver flask, make bets on what’s Mars or stars. Next morning, he’s long gone, along with her purse full of tips and a new pair of panty hose.
Meg Pokrass asks Sarah Freligh to discuss her stories in NEW MICRO and to talk about the craft of writing microfiction.
You are driving on the lake road toward Canada when an orange moon presents itself to you, plump and juicy as ripe fruit.