Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

She remembers chasing butterflies across the freshly mown lawn, the air ripe with lavender, her dad drinking cider on the patio. She danced from bush to bush, carving circles in the sky with a fishing net made of bamboo and plastic mesh. Thirty years later, she sits in the darkened corner of a hotel conference suite, her hair scraped back, her eyes hidden behind tortoiseshell frames. She’s surrounded by colleagues sipping Cabernet this and Pinot that. The man on the stage speaks with the wayward tones of someone who’s been drinking since lunch but she isn’t listening. Leaning into the microphone he says, “Which brings us to that most coveted award, Employee of the Year.” She never caught a butterfly. Eventually she collapsed on the grass, exhausted. With a handkerchief from his pocket, her dad stroked the tears from her cheeks, saying “You tried your best. That’s all that matters.” Sitting her on his knee, he said “Don’t be upset. There’s nothing in this world more important th...

I'm standing on a bridge. Not a metaphor, not the idea of a bridge, a real fucking bridge. It's cold and the end of my nose is numb. The drizzle is coming down as if it will never end. I look down at the cars, they have their lights on, even though it's daytime. That's how much of a grim day this is. They make that swishing sound as they go past on the black road. The air is heavy with exhaust fumes. Tears course down my cheeks. I'm crying for myself, my daughter, even my mother who I hardly knew. The pain's all I've got left, my veins are full of it. My thoughts float up like bubbles that burst one by one. I'm worthless. I may as well not be here. Get it over with. I hate them all. Nobody cared. Just do it, get it over with. I heave myself over the white painted barrier and stand there looking down at the cars swishing past, each containing a small world of people. It's making me feel dizzy and my hands are cold. The railing's slippery wit...