Spark

Shane peered out the window into the night. The candles on each table cast a warm glow behind him—filling the restaurant and illuminating the small cluster of faces as they waited. He’d been planning his best friend’s engagement party for weeks. He’d been in many weddings, but this was the first that made him believe he might marry the man he loved. Ten minutes later, the expected men arrived, hand in hand. Congratulations and conversing. Dinner. Drinks. Toasts. Clink of glass. Cake. As they walked away, Shane looked at his love, cleaning up the celebration’s remains. Maybe one day.

Sin of Autonomy

The monster peers through the living room window, his latest victim’s blood still dripping from his talons, soaking into the lawn. At first ponderance, weeks ago, he thought he’d dine on the family. Quickly, respect overrules his stomach. The parents’ cold demeanor make him tremble. Words profess love as their hands turn the key, locking the child inside. The boy’s eyes long since dull and empty. With audacious query he requests to play. “No,” they counter. “Not until you do all we say; think everything we claim.” Then walk away. The monster aspires to their mastery of cruelty. Some day.

Kinda Like Love

His toes curled, yellow leaves rustling at the movement. Rough bark helping his back find its curve after hours hunched over the screen. His novel’s seven new pages had come at sacrifice. Each pound of the keys punches to the gut, slicing his confidence. Chasing a dream, one that left him battered and bruised. Other times, leaving him soaring higher than man is allowed to fly. The phone beside him would soon buzz, his love reaching out from Europe to wish sweet dreams to his author back home. So many tears, so many kisses. Love. Kinda like writing a book.

At Last

They’d kissed thousands of times. Maybe millions over the span of five decades. At this point, their rings were scuffed and tarnished, despite many cleaning trips to the jeweler. All the fights, all the protests, all the countless disappointments after each legal defeat. The three month prognosis arrived hours before the country chose to acknowledge their love, their commitment. Tears of grief birthing tears of joy. Then back again. His hands trembled, nervous after all these years, and he clasped the withered hands of the man who’d shared his life. The minister proclaimed, signatures signed. Joyous tears crept. Lips met.