The bisected earthworm wriggles, a mess of segments that sticks to the bottom of my shoe. Poor blind worm. It’s too stupid to know there’s no point in continuing. I wish it could slip back into its subterranean darkness. Back to when it was whole.
The worm’s muscles contract and release, its insides slick and exposed like a heart.
Jay stands, arms folded, his Honda weighted with suitcases. Another woman’s scent still clings to the stubbled underbelly of his jaw, the curve of his neck, his tapered fingers. A light drizzle starts, and it dots my glasses so that, once again, my vision clouds. Should I shake his hand? Good try, better luck next time I could say, even though the odds are skewed if both players aren’t fully in the game.
His car vanishes in the grey fug, and the worm stretches, curls, like it wants to forget about the part that’s torn away and move on. Don’t they regenerate lost segments? Or maybe that’s an urban myth like forgiveness and starting over.
Dawn Miller is Pushcart Prize nominee, Best Small Fictions nominee, Best Microfiction winner, and the recipient of a 2024 SmokeLong Quarterly Fellowship for Emerging Writers. Her stories appear in The Cincinnati Review, The Forge Literary Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, Fractured Lit, Vestal Review, Atticus Review, and elsewhere.
This story was shortlisted in the July 24 Monthly Micro Competition.