The scurry of something in the walls is the only sound Harriet hears. Monica has gone to bed upstairs and Errol hasn’t come back after all these hours from the long drive into town. Now the sun bleeds a deep visceral red and brown into the horizon over the wheat fields.
“Talk to me,” Harriet says to the noise in the wall. Her tears on the dining room table have dried.
Thanks for checking out my short story.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!
—Gabriel Muoio
$1.00
