by Mercedes Lawry
Nobody saved the swimmer. The air turned chilly, swelling with absence. Loud voices broke apart, dissipated to murmurs. The day would soon be over. Each one present experienced their own version of what occurred, and the telling of it would be fractured. People left, burdened or bereft. Gulls lumbered on the sand attending their hunger. Finally an early moon appeared as if reluctant, or imagined.
Mercedes Lawry has published short fiction in several journals, including Gravel, Cleaver, and Blotterature. She was a semi-finalist in The Best Small Fictions 2016. She’s published three poetry chapbooks, the most recent selected by Molly Peacock. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize six times. She lives in Seattle.