My flash-fiction piece, Stella, is published by Spillwords Press.
It’s an odd piece — I call it one of my weirdlings — and when workshopping it in a writing group, people had mixed views of what the ending meant, reminding me once more how people read the same words with such a different gaze.
When she left, my potted cactus had gone. A dusty ring on the shelf marked its disappearance and it was then I knew. Only an hour before, when Stella was here, I’d seen it.