Hope McCain's Blog

I sat in the only clean booth, in the corner near the restroom, and filled out a job application. The waitress waddled to my table with a slice of apple pie and a cappuccino. “I hope you’re not applying to work here,” she scoffed, and with a whisper added, “Terrible place.” I sipped at my coffee, the foam tickling my lips, and looked away from her.

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He was the last person she kissed. She was the last person he killed. He found love, finally, and it had to be stopped.

When it was over, he fell asleep on the sofa. He woke to the buttery sound of her voice. She was there at his side, naked, cold. He petted her face and she grinned. He thought, Oh thank God, it wasn’t real. But when he blinked, she evaporated.


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The challenge for my latest story was: The last word of every sentence contains at least two M's, but the letter M does not appear anywhere else in the story.

Excerpt:

Standing over Ted’s bed, Anita says, “What do you remember?” The window is half open, blowing in the refreshing breath of summer. Ted wishes it would blow everything away—the chaos dancing in his skull, the fire in his gut, the nauseating vividness of his memories.

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