Megan Thomas
Stories (2)
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Bricks
Coming up to two and a half years since Sarah and Kevin met. They were sitting across the dining table at their own small Christmas celebration, just the two of them. There was a small tree in the background, with presents under it. Presents that include those shipped from family far away and still not visited during the Holidays. Dinner represented cuisine favorites from two different cultures. A bottle of wine was popped open and a toast made to surviving another year of the pandemic. They were a pandemic couple of sorts. Having met the fall before the start of the pandemic, the core of Sarah and Kevin’s relationship was built in the anxiety laden years that followed. They weren’t one of those adventurous couples who threw their hands up in the air and moved in together because why not (only probably to realize why pretty soon after). They were however one of those adventurous couples who with little and no experience disappeared into the forest for a few days because what else was one to do in a pandemic. They tried to date normally through it all although that concept didn’t hold its own for very long. They became each other’s tight pandemic circle. Bouncing off of each other their crazy attempts to define a new way of being. While everything around them lost all stability, they clung on to a relationship that was young and fragile and made it their mode of survival. It would be illusory to say that their bond didn’t benefit from the sudden exclusive reliance on each other.
By Megan Thomas4 years ago in Fiction
Under A Mask
I finally gave in. I just had to bring in the vase to replace the drooping flowers. I had watched them in anticipation for more than a week as they painted quite a contrast to the fresh tulips I had seen for the past year since I started working as a grave keeper at St. Catherine’s cemetery. This grave with the porcelain vase was in the upper right corner of the courtyard, one of thousands. Every Monday I would see the young man bring in fresh tulips to put in the vase by the tombstone, always three, always white. Now he hadn’t come in over two weeks and while I hated to break into an intimate rhythm between two people, drooping flowers at a grave create quite a nagging sense of abandonment.
By Megan Thomas5 years ago in Criminal
