Supercut

Ray slipped at the top of his building's stoop and flew face first at the cement below. Time elongated as a supercut of his entire life played out like a scene on a museum urn.

There was Ray's first memory: being handed to a smelly, strange man, dressed in red and white with a giant beard. He'd been waiting in line with many other equally scared children. While he screamed, the scary, strange, smelly man laughed and his parents took photos and everyone laughed.

That was really the only memory that came to mind. Ray was only four years old.

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