Epiphany Ferrell
It was a clear night, moon distant, not quiet, too many spring peepers and crickets for that, and Elena and David sat side by side on Adirondack chairs with a wine bottle between them, empty, and another half gone, Elena wondering to herself if it would be better to die than go on this way even one more clear, beautiful night, if it wouldn’t be better to swerve into the path of a Mack truck, for example, or leap from Chimney Rock; and she wondered if it would be better to move away, even run away, to find a job in another city and to hire a moving truck and just be gone, no notice given; or would it be better to go on as they were, restless, disappointed, with shallow, unlively eyes, as they sat there, drinking a blood-red Cabernet neither of them had selected—it was a gift— he continuing not to say “I love you” and she continuing not to say it back.
Epiphany Ferrell’s stories appear in more than 90 journals and anthologies, including Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, Wigleaf, New Flash Fiction Review, and the Stoker-nominated anthology Shakespeare Unleashed. She lives in Southern Illinois.
Photo by Megan Nixon on Unsplash
