Waterloo

By Nikki Williams

He swaggered along the lip of the pool—she held her breath, knew what came next.

The noise that could destroy daylight, could shake you awake.

The walls watch her clear the breakfast things, never her thoughts. Her hopes hang like ghost-grey fog. Seasons cycle on.

She sits alone under berried limbs, her bare legs blanketed by blackness, the crickets’ ceaseless song spilling into dusk.

Then, footsteps on gravel. One turn too many.

Sudden flurry of movement, black flash against the black night. Her red eyes swallow a perfect sluice of white.

His voice booms—unclear, unintelligible. Words that no longer matter.

THE END

Author Bio: Nikki Williams is a copywriter and music critic. Her work appears in The Citron Review, Ellipsiszine, Sublunary Review, LEON Literary Review, Sky Island Journal, Literary Yard, PreeLit, Nymphs, and New Pop Lit. She munches trail mix and takes stunning photos when not busy writing. She tweets: @ohsashalee / See more: linktr.ee/writenowrong.

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