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Today is June 6th, and that means you only have 24 more days to pre-order the special edition of CHROMOPHOBIA. You can place your order HERE.
by Ali Seay
I want to be jaded. I want to not offer her any scrap of information. That is how they read you. They’re con artists, tricksters. They feed on hope and grief and desperation.
But I am desperate. So very desperate.
“Thank you,” I say. Then I laugh. Am I thanking her or Charlie?
She smiles at me, perfectly content to let me collect myself.
“He says you’re not sleeping well.”
Of course, I’m not. Who would be? He’s only been gone a month and somehow every day stretches out longer than the last. At night, I push my hand to his empty side of the bed, shove it under the coolness beneath his unused pillows.
I’d even like to hear the whooshing hiss of his morphine machine. Or his restless sleep.
But it’s only silence now. A big yawning blank where my husband used to be.
I’d take the sleepless nights and constant care and ever-present grief at watching him die to this.
Because at least he could reach out and grab my wrist and say—
“There’s my girl,” she says.
I jump. My eyes fill. I twist the hem of the yellow dress I know he likes in my fingers. He said it matched my “flaxen hair”. Flaxen. He was a man who used words like flaxen.
“My trophy wife,” she goes on.
I stand so suddenly, I knock my chair over.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I stammer, righting it. “I have to go. I—uh, I’m not feeling well.” It’s only been about ten minutes, but I toss sixty bucks on the table. The price of a full half hour reading.
“This was a mistake,” I say.
Fun Fact: As of this writing, CHROMOPHOBIA is but a few sales away from breaking even. How about that?! It is hard to express the gratitude we have for every single one of these pre-orders.
Anthologies are always a gamble, especially for scrappy lil’ outfits like Rooster Republic Press, so… thank you.
You keep buying cool stuff, we’ll keep making cool stuff.
Pre-order your hardcover edition of CHROMOPHOBIA HERE.