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Monoculus By Susan McCreery | Word Riot
Flash Fiction

July 29, 2017      

Monoculus By Susan McCreery

He held his new glass eye up to the light. I like it, he said. It has boldness. Depth. He fitted the eye and set its gaze on her, penetrating, unwavering. She said, Don’t look at me like that. I can’t help it, he said. It’s the eye. It has boldness, depth. I can’t change its expression. Then buy another one, she said. I can’t stand being looked at like that all day. It was the last one in the shipment, he said. I’d have to wait three months for another selection. They’re not easy to obtain. I can wait three months if it means I get an eye that looks at me tenderly. Can’t you order a tender eye? I don’t think they make tender eyes. Well, what are the options? Bold. Cruel. Distant. Unfathomable. Can’t say I like any of them. How about you just take it out and we live with empty for a while? Empty. Yes. That could work.

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