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Weekly Contest #367
The Last MealThe bread was still warm when his mother broke it.Vasco watched her hands do it — the same hands that had broken bread every morning of his life, the same small tear at the crust, the same offering of the larger half to him without a word about it, as if he were still a boy of nine and not a man of thirty-seven days from the edge of everything anyone in Sines or Lisbon had ever known. Outside, the sky over the Tagus was still more grey than gold. Somewhere down at Restelo, four ships sat low and patient against the tide, waiting...
Weekly Contest #366
I should have known better than to go on my honeymoon by myself.That's what I told the woman at the gate agent counter, half-laughing, half-sobbing, when she asked if I was okay. She had the kind of face that had seen a lot of crying travelers and had learned to say nothing and just slide the tissue box two inches closer. I took one. I didn't stop crying.It wasn't the crying you do because your heart is broken. I want to be clear about that, because for a long time I thought that's exactly what it was, and I was wrong about almost everything...
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