There's 58 words in this story

And that's why it's called a Fiction in 58. Sort of a literary "amuse-bouche."


She unfurls the linen napkin, smoothes it across her lap.
The wine is robust, a Chilean red that’s scored well; it breathes in a glass carafe.
The meal is presentation-exquisite, edible sculpture on square bone China.
“Why yes, there’s Tabasco in the remoulade,” she whispers to the emptiness.
And frees the empty pill bottle from her grasp.


Jill said...

This story, while short, is poignant.

I loved it.