Night Music

All summer we stayed with Mazie’s mother, who smelled of lavender and gin. We strolled the boardwalk every day, pretend ladies in tattered lace, until Pierre bought us a sunflower, promised a three-course meal if we escorted him to a picture. That night the ocean thrashed and gulls swarmed the dunes. “Does Mommy keep a liquor cabinet?” Pierre asked. Mazie’s laugh was gilded, gorgeous. She put on a record and he danced until I dizzied. When I awoke, the room was empty. In the bedroom, Mazie stared sweet like a doll, flower petals underfoot, hands and skirt shimmering with pollen.

Maureen Traverse is a graduate of the MFA program at The Ohio State University. Her flash pieces have appeared online in Prime Number, elimae, and elsewhere, and in a print anthology from Fast Forward Press.

 

Photo Credit: Nelo Hotsuma

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