shaunplus
A minuscule drop fell from the stem when she cut the flower. She tossed the sinewy bottom into the trash and placed the bloom behind her left ear. Eventually the flower would fade. The petals would fall and she would throw it, too, into the garbage.
Late-summer storms often erupt across the lake—the low clouds can quickly ferment into a sudden charcoal brew. High winds and steady, cyclical waves may toss the water out of its banks. Occasional threads of lightning can tear through the dark sky and illuminate our yards in that white, alien rigor. We may sit in seance over a crackling weather radio, might worry about the brackish, ever-encroaching lake, but our candle-encircled kitchens will flicker safe around us like greasy makeshift stars.
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