by Jodi MacArthur

It laid strewn across the floor, dead and undead. I hadn't meant to raise the pistol, hadn't anticipated the frosty fingers of fear to freeze my insides and steal my breath. He lived through the fire, my husband, but not through the surgery. He's come back for me, I suppose. I watch a finger stub, charred by coals, twitch and point at me. I reach for my book of matches in my back pocket, wanting to settle the matter once and for all.


Jodi MacArthur, exiled in deep south Texas, is a Seattle author hoping to write her way back to the Pacific Northwest. In her spare time, she twitters at her beloved finches, Edgar and Emily, and drinks coffee - but never at the same time.