by William Yarbrough
He says: Dead people kissing. She says: Ant ribs in the sunroom. Little corpses I’ve dragged in from the yard. He says: See? She’s scared. She says: I am not. He says: Remember when we were at the lake house, and you wouldn’t jump in the water with me because you were too afraid of there being snakes at the bottom, even though I told you it was fine? She says: Henry was a baby. He says: My niece offered to watch him. He would have been fine. She says: What about Tuesday, when I found him on the porch? He says: Don’t act like you saved him. You just don’t want my parents knowing you smoke. She says: I quit during pregnancy. He says: I could still smell it on you. Those Pall Malls stink to hell. She says: It was your lighter he was playing with. He says: I had it in my pocket. She says: That’s not what I saw.
– William Yarbrough is a writer of short fiction. He is 24 years old and lives in Paoli, Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in “Smokelong Quarterly”, “Right Hand Pointing,” “Squalorly,” and others. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org, or by well-directed carrier pigeon.