The morning Merilee disappeared, my lover died in a fire that started and ended in her queen-sized bed. The fire department declared arson, perhaps self-immolation, although they never found traces of accelerant. But I’d discovered Twenty-One Love Poems spread open on the rug, and remembered the heat from her hands stilled inches above my mons.
Inspired by the 52-250 Flash a Year theme -- spontaneous combustion -- and the urge to write a 55-word story. Heck, why not? Brevity is good. And feeling a tad naughty as I head into the new year.