The Lie

I hung up the phone and ten minutes later the doorbell rang. I peeked through the blinds, and it was James. I'd told him I didn’t want to see him anymore and he was on the stoop, holding a bouquet of red roses.

He lied to me, and flowers wouldn’t make it better.

My head ached and I was exhausted from stress. I looked out again and he was sitting on the step now. Good, let him wait, I thought.

I shut the lights, went upstairs, and made myself a hot bath. Soon after, I heard his car screech away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

On This, That, And The Other

Gina peeled each layer of the onion back like it was a metaphor for her own life. That's why she was disappointed to reach the center and find nothing was there.

This was the danger with metaphors. You may lose control of them so that they take on a life of their own, like a dog that bites the hand that feeds it, or a gift looking a horse in the mouth, and then nothing makes sense anymore.

Or maybe it's not metaphors she's thinking of, but clichés. There is, after all, nothing original about an onion with no meaning.