by Cheryl Chambers

The sweater faded under the light bulb's heat, under the clamor of glasses clinking, shouts, and ripped wrapping. A meteor projected across the sky, a flash of brilliance. It blinded two women standing outside for a cigarette. That was amazing, the one said. Yeah, the other said, but I should have worn the sweater. They threw their butts in the heaped snow, each tiny flame extinguished in a second, leaving wet paper and ashy clumps.


Cheryl Chambers is a poet and fiction writer. She also reads for the flash publication Vestal Review.