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David Rochester


Photo by Anthony Smolenski


for Clay Douglas

The last things she'd washed had been his:  shorts, socks; the slate-colored sweatshirts he wore to bed in winter, neutral and identical as prison uniforms.  She pulled grey fuzz from the dryer screen, and rolled it into a soft bullet.  Ten years of love, reduced to a handful of trash.

David Rochester hails from the western USA and invites you to visit him here:






B.D. Wilson




 Photograph © Bram De Meyerk


It started as she saw the man with the blue backpack stop to buy a newspaper. Little spider-crawly pricks on her back that seemed to scratch whispers in her ears.

He would open the newspaper, see the light change, then step out into the street. The car would be a grey Honda, driven by a woman screaming into her cell phone. He would fold -
legs on the bumper, torso on the hood -
and then fly, fly away, landing with a splatter and crinkled paper.

The feeling stopped. The man looked at the light, and stepped into the street.


 ©BD Wilson


Bio: BD Wilson is a writer from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. A firm believer in a virtual existence, BD's home on the Web is located at


My Motivation: Premonition: This story is the result of a prompt, "Write about what has yet to happen" and far too many days people-watching from coffee shops on corners.