Here’s my latest story. The first draft was short, and it shrank quite a bit in editing. I’m really drawn to the constraints of the micro story. The form reminds me of looking into a doll house.
By Laura McHale Holland
He’d pick her up in his Camaro, and they’d ride nowhere special. His pills fought off fingers of dread clutching their necks. So they thought. Bennies. Quaaludes. Meth. LSD. Mescaline. Washed down with malt liquor. Just the two of them. Creeping down silent streets until dawn. Again, again, again.
Then he gave her white lines on glass, and she fell into a poisoned velvet well. The next time he steered the Camaro into her drive, she wasn’t there.
He found new drives, new girls. She became a chocoholic. He’s riding still.