Style Weekly Sixth Annual Fiction Contest
by gayla mills
We sat on the porch for a last look at the Priest. Its peak had taken on a bluish tint in the early evening light. The frogs had begun their chorus by the pond. The air still held the fragrance of the mountain laurel.
“I think it’s time,” he said, turning toward me with those deep liquid eyes. I nodded just a bit as my stomach seized. “We’ve had a good run of it, haven’t we?”
He rose, banked the fire, and fetched the bottle from the bathroom. “What do you think would be best, scotch or hot cocoa?” I pondered the question. I was more in the mood for the cocoa. “Scotch,” I said. “It ought to work quicker.” He got out the glasses with the gold tips, a wedding gift from forty years ago. The thought of that day made me smile.
First he measured the powder with a tablespoon, then splashed the whiskey on top. A quick stir, and with a gentle touch, he passed me one glass. Our eyes caught in a moist exchange.
We heard the screeching of tires as they tore up the gravel. The raucous laughter sent a chill. “That’s it, my love. One last drink.” As we drank deep, the fading sunset cast a glow on the approaching mob.