by L Mari Harris
she told him to find someone else to pretend to love. She wished him well, gifted him happiness, spoon fed him his just desserts. Her blood and bones and skin fluttered, little currents tingling, building as the hours drew shorter; the minutes, the seconds. Then, a hum. This hum, a symphony of horns and strings, a discordant piano. Haunting, really, this hum, like something she remembered once, coming from a room off another room, up a staircase she rarely climbed, a voice deep, familiar, long ago unfurled.
L Mari Harris’s most recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in matchbook, Ponder Review, (mac)ro(mic), Bandit Lit, Pithead Chapel, Tiny Molecules, among others. She lives in central Missouri. Follow her on Twitter @LMariHarris and read more of her work at www.lmariharris.wordpress.com.