BECKETT / WAITING           p. 49

GODOT enters, stage left

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She: Macular. He: Parkinson’s. She pushing, he directing, they get down the ramp, across the grass, through the gate. The wheels roll riverwards.

— Edith Pearlman, Hint Fiction

Our job was to lubricate the time machine and keep it oiled, but man, we just now found out we’re being paid by the hour.

— Ron Carlson, Hint Fiction

“Can’t you count? I said two of each. This” — he shook the squirming fluff of black and white in front of her — “is three.”

— Shanna Germain, Hint Fiction

Excuse me?

Tongue, he repeated. Tongue the notes.

She replayed the etude. The result was so obvious it seemed obscene. Unnecessary. An excess of separation.

— Robin Rozanski, Hint Fiction

You wear a shawl of moonlight, and my mouth where your breast used to be.

“We waited too long,” you say.

“Not quite.”

— Ann Harleman, Hint Fiction

I always thought it would hurt more but I kind of liked it. He hoped I would. And technically I’m still a virgin. Amen.

— Robin Hollis, Hint Fiction

There had been rumors from the North for months. None of us believed it, until one night we started to kill our children too.

— L R. Bonehill, Hint Fiction

My wife curls toward me, a comma forcing a pause. Her body is hers. Again. The emptiness settles between us. We listen to it breathe.

— Madeline Mora-Summonte, Hint Fiction

Susan turned  from the road, walked to the house, and spent the evening reassembling the words that had passed from his lips to her ear.

— Ryan W. Bradley, Hint Fiction

He held her crepe-paper hand and summoned an autumn day, sepia and smoke, and dancing, and music that sounded nothing like the beeping of machines.

— Marcus Sakey, Hint Fiction

The fence is tall. Good. The mother is typical white trash, too loud. But the kids . . . they seem frightened and quiet. Good. Easier that way.

— Gary A. Braunbeck, Hint Fiction

Flight attendant Sherri was always quick to offer airsick bags. Reverse-bulimia, though a disgusting disease, was bearable for her when the meals were fresh.

— Jack Kilborn, Hint Fiction