Signed Books– and a Flash Fiction story!

Hey,

A lot of people have been asking me lately how they can buy signed books.  I only do them a few times of year nowadays, but I’m taking orders this week.  So if you want a signed book,

FILL OUT THIS ORDER FORM.  

 

In other news,  the other day I did something fun.  I decided to sit down and write a Flash Fiction piece– just for the fun of it.

Flash Fiction is a very short piece of fiction– usually between 500 and 1,000 words.  It was fun to write– it stirred up my creative processes, without any kind of expectation.  I knew I wasn’t going to sell it, so I didn’t have to worry about whether it was salable, or if people would like it.  I simply wrote it… just because.    If you want to read it… it’s here.  🙂

I hope you all have a fantastic Thursday!

XO,

Courtney

Moira and Me

By Courtney Cole

 

The world ended in fire.

It’s only right, if you think about it.   The world is a ball of molten mess, blazing from the inside out, burning for a million years.  It was only a matter of time until we were all consumed by it.

Except for me.  I’m still here with Moira, with charred feet and ash on my cheek.

“Why us?” she muses one gray day while we’re hunting for water with parched throats and dry fingers.

“Because we’re lucky.”  That’s laughable and so she laughs, and the sound echoes through the empty Chicago streets.  It’s terrifying because the city should be full and noisy but it’s not, and I should be sitting at a desk computing numbers and eating oranges, but I’m not.

I’m scratching the ground hunting for water.

“Would you have still loved me back then?” Moira is skinny in the muted sunlight, and her cheeks are sallow and bare. Her hair is limp and her arms are long, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

“Probably.”  Although that’s a lie.  She was a prostitute and I didn’t do that kind of thing.

But things have changed.

She reaches for me, and her ragged fingernails scratch at my neck and I close my eyes.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

“Me too.”

She curls into me, and we take comfort the only way we know how, the human way, the age-old innate coming together way and we’re all warmth and limbs and breath.

“I think I’m ready,” she murmurs afterward, and I think I agree.

This life is hard, and we aren’t the lucky ones.

We tread across the cracked ground, until we stop with our dirty toes curled on the precipice.  Moira’s fingers grip mine, and her eyes are bottomless glass.

“Now?” she croaks, and I nod.

We stare into the lava below, at the churning, belching hell, and there is only one thing left.

“Good bye, Moira,” I tell her, and I look into her soul.  “It’s been good to know you.”

She nods, and her spirit is broken, because of course it is.  Nothing thrives anymore.

“You’ve never told me your name,” she points out.  “And it’s been a long time.”

Names seem foolish now that it’s only her and me, but maybe, maybe there’s still importance in it.  Besides, it’s only polite.

“It’s Sam,” I say out loud for the first time in two years. “Samuel Isaiah Crane.”

“It was nice to know you, Sam.”

And it was.

“Do you think we’ll rest in peace?” she asks, and her empty eyes hold a spark of hope, the first I’ve seen catch hold there.

“We can try.”

She clutches me, and my fingers are entwined in her hair as we twist and turn and fall into the burning abyss.

It’s ok.

It was only a matter of time, anyway.

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