There’s a photograph of him lying next to my favorite book. It was the book I got for our anniversary by the author I hate. But the book was good.
She’s been in the hospital for too long. Every drip from the I.V. makes the seconds double. They double over and over until the days go by and she’s not in the hospital anymore.
They told me they left to buy a new water and food bowl for their daughter’s surprise after school. But I know it’s going to go unused.
My son has gotten a brown substance smeared across the wife’s good couch. I’m not quite sure what it is.
Daddy wanted to hear his grandkids before the flight left. Before he left and because they’ll ask where he is when their plane comes back safe.
She didn’t recognize the number so she picked up the phone. She heard my voice. She hung up. She won’t make the same mistake twice.
She cleaned while I was out. Now she’s left me in it, and I can’t find a damned thing.
I know they’re going to call from their dorm asking how to wash the whites. Because I need to remind them; because I know they’ll call back.
The silence of the empty house leaves too much space for noise. It doesn’t ring more than once unless it echoes off of the walls.
I told grandma I needed her cookie recipe. She says she shouldn’t talk to strangers.
His favorite movie is on. He isn’t there to see it. I’m just there to let him know I’m watching it.
Because I heard crying. Screams of No, stop!
Because I wouldn’t try to stop it.
She lost it and wants to bury it. She says it would be nice if I were there.
Gerrard Davis is a senior at Georgia Southern University and is double majoring in Creative Writing and Philosophy. He plans to acquire his MFA in Creative Writing, specifically in Poetry after which he intends to attain his Master’s and PhD in Philosophy.