by Blane Conklin

Their eyes met for a moment. The eyes — their only features not repulsive to the gaze. The only thing about either of them still open to interpretation. Hers green, his brown; matching lost souls. One could still catch a glimpse of innocence and promise not quite buried beneath the pain and loss there. He blinked, and looked down at his sandwich.


Blane Conklin holds a PhD in ancient Semitic languages, and is employed in a completely unrelated field. He also likes to write, and enjoys the good life in Austin, Texas, with his wife and two daughters.