The Road to Albany


“I don’t love you anymore,” she said. “Maybe never did.”


“Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

“Yeah,” he said. “When did this epiphany occur? Was it when I passed that car from Massachusetts on the right, or when I fell asleep during the ballet I paid $400 for you to attend? Or was it…”

“Stop,” she said.

“I just think I deserve an explanation why the woman I love stopped loving me. If you ever did.”

“I think you know.”

“Don’t you think my killing him was enough?”

“No, Mother never did a thing to stop him.”


Jumping Day 2 of my Poem-a-Month challenge for Day 3’s call for a 100-word Drabble. (Love that word. A 50-word story is a dribble, by the way.) I write a lot of 100-word poems, even published a collection of them called One Hundred Beats A Minute, so I turned my poet’s hat around backward and dove into the shallow end of the prose pool. I’d set aside this title a long time ago, with no story or even story idea attached. But the combination of inspiration, obsession and compulsion have a strange effect on me when I hit this chair.

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