by Emily Rapoza

When the sun stretched its fingers over the world, we were still awake. The night was a blur in my mind: laughter, kissing, music, tears. I slept until noon that day, and when I woke up, I realized I had never been happier. I heard you in the kitchen, and the smell of eggs floated through the house. Three months later, you were gone. Out of all the fading memories I have of you, the ones I dream about, the ones I think about when I'm driving alone, I'll never forget the way you lied to me.


Emily Rapoza has written stories since she could hold a pencil. She's a girl from all over, but currently lives in Pendleton, Oregon.


natasha said...


I think a lot of women will relate to this one. Myself, I would miss the smell of breakfast cooking in the morning, but that's just me.

Joe said...

Outstanding. Wrought with raw emotion and composed beautifully in six sentences.

Shaindel said...

YAY, Emily! I'm so *proud* of you!

lcyeiser said...

Emily, this piece is brilliant.

Catherine said...