Category Archives: Flick, Sherrie

Practice

by Sherrie Flick

Her yellow slicker, the one that leaked, hung from the coat rack by the front door. Sarah was alone, the living room silent except for the spilling rain, its pitter-patter in the morning light, the streaks of water across the floor.

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Little Dog

by Sherrie Flick

Ten years, the stubby stone candle holders are a clock on our kitchen tabletop. The little dog running laps at our feet, the second hand. Our chairs scrape. We pull them back, scoot them in. Flick a match, spark the wicks, and the wispy wax of all the years past becomes a hazy measurement of us. (more…)