April Seventh

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

I raised my glass of Southern Comfort to the lone cupcake. "Cheers."

The whiskey was sweet and warm but didn't sit right in my stomach. Groaning, I set the glass back on the stained table, which was sad and bare except for the cupcake and the whiskey.

My brain was foggy from the afternoon drinking and the unusual humidity that made the air thick and hot. I knew I was forgetting something. Oh yes, the candle. How old was she this year? I felt the sweat on my brow threatening to fall into my eyes and mopped it up with the base of my wife-beater. Thirty? I supposed she'd be thirty this year.

The knick-knack drawer only had half an open box of candles. Pink would never do. Blue? Nah. Red? Perfect.

I plunged the candle into the white icing of the cupcake until I found resistance and pushed it a little more. It was lopsided but that was okay. Nobody was going to see it. I wiggled it until it was more or less upright.

Lighting the candle, I sighed unhappily. "Here's to another year apart. Happy birthday, Kay."


No prequels yet. Why not write one?

« Write a prequel


No sequels yet. Why not write one?

Write a sequel »

Comments (2 so far!)

Average reader rating 5.00/5



I love this piece. In true ficlatte style, it's so economical and poignant. The bit about the color of the candles spoke volumes. Great work!

  • #819 Posted 8 years ago
  • 0


The pain of the scenario pours from the page. I agree with Escapist that this makes excellent use of the Ficlatté form by telling so much in so few words.

Well told.

  • #825 Posted 8 years ago
  • 0
  • 5 out of 5
  • Published 8 years ago and featured 8 years ago.
  • Story viewed 21 times and rated 1 times.

All stories on Ficlatté are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License. What does this mean?