Sometimes I write very (very) short stories. Today is one of those times.
Jefferson Harris’s private rapture happened at 4:17 on Friday, at the corner of Lakewood and Broad. He was waiting to cross the street, hurrying to get back to the office, when the clouds parted and God spoke to him. “It is time.”
Afterward, people sometimes remarked on the small scorched spot on the sidewalk.
I am thinking of putting together a chapbook of these very short stories, and possibly some of my other work. Would anyone be interested in such a thing?