We met on the mountain at the halfway point between up and down. Hard-packed dirt bordered by scrappy shrubs and occasional candy wrappers, the path slid into loose gravel, washboard erosion. We braced, slowed, stopped. We stood face to face, more honest than when we fought, voices raised in anger at slights so minor as to be unmemorable. We embraced, we wept, we sat on a boulder looked out on the sea, its azure blue, green, purple depths roiling, settling, welling up. We wavered, pulled by the gravity of the moon and the earth. We hovered between earth and sky.
Monica lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two foster dogs. She taught parents how to raise their toddlers for twenty-five years before retiring in 2015 to write. The secret to toddlers is to make sure you get enough sleep. Monica hasn't found the secret to writing, yet, but is diligently working at it. See links to her on-line stories on the publications page.
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Monica's Monday Morning Flash 