A Short Story in Ithaca

Photo by Greta Unetich

By Greta Unetich

A thunderstorm rolls into Ithaca. Its thunderheads collect in the black night.
My bedsheets stick to my legs; sweat beads on the breath of my pillow, the nape of my neck. I sit cross-legged on my comforter and tie my humid hair up below my window in the light of the moon.

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s