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Story by Beth Thomas (Read author interview) March 16, 2007

She stayed in bed and listened to him shuffle around in the dark looking for something: a lighter, a cigarette. She watched from half-closed eyes as he stalked the bedroom on bare footpads, as quiet as someone so clumsy can be. When the room shook, he paused mid-step, hands out for balance, a stupefied look on his face. Her favorite blue vase rocked on the bookshelf, fell, shattered. He swore; she closed her eyes and pretended not to notice. The earthquake was brief and easy, like a heavy door slamming shut elsewhere in the house.

About the Author

Beth Thomas is originally from New Mexico but currently lives in California due to military relocation. She works as a technical writer in the aerospace/defense industry—don’t ask what she writes about ’cause she can’t really tell you. She has a BA and an MA in writerly things from New Mexico universities. Her work has recently appeared in Pindeldyboz Online, SmokeLong Quarterly, Juked, Word Riot, and other places.

This story appeared in Issue Sixteen of SmokeLong Quarterly.
SmokeLong Quarterly Issue Sixteen

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