Flash fiction by Brian Burmeister
While my wife slept that morning, I took the children down to the beach.
They raced to the water’s edge, then further out.
I was forty and slow, couldn’t keep up.
One dark, large wave came in, came out.
Over and over, I submerged, searched, screamed. Prayed God’s hand would rise from the sea.
Previously published in Blink Ink
A month after Mom passed, I went back to the house to pack up.
In the corner of her closet, buried under a pile of shoes, was a box within a box.
Inside were dozens of aged, black-and-white photos of my mother with a man I didn’t know. There were no letters, no notes on the backs of the photos, nothing to indicate who they were of or when they were from.
I wondered: Did my father know she was happy once?
Previously published in Thin Air Magazine