They left with the best of intentions. "We'll Skype every Friday. We'll talk all the time." But it's November now. I get the first note in a while from one of them, but it's in a group text with a bunch of people I don't know, littered with inside jokes I'm on the outside of.
It comes as I stand in the graveyard. The wind blows up from the river, carrying the sound of cars whizzing by. It spins the half-broken pinwheels left over from people visiting in the summertime.
I didn't know the person whose grave lies before me. I didn't know anyone here. My friends went to college; I work at a scrap place. But I'm here now. Maybe I've found my place.
YOU ARE READING
Flash Fiction
Short StoryAn ongoing collection of literary flash fiction stories. Topics range from death to old t-shirts.
