Time Does Not Fly

by Sally Showalter

The bottle rolled until it hit a wall. A dull clink, a glassy skid, a crack in the brown long neck. Marcie kicked a second one, then another, and another until her father’s trash can was empty. She kicked the trash can sideways and it slid under the table with a whoosh. A half-chewed pizza crust spilled out over the cigarette butts, all crinkled from dried lip slobber. Marcie studied the round cheap face over a cabinet and waited for the hands to agree at five o’clock when she was free to go back home.

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Sally Showalter writes fiction, memoir, and poetry. Her recent book is a collaboration with two other authors of their twenty-five-year experience of their writer’s group and friendship, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets. She has genres of each published in various anthology collections. She lives in Tucson, Arizona where blue skies and sunshine alight with inspiration.