Micro Prose: Parallax by Stephanie Bento


parallax, n. [pærəlæks] 1. You always drove whenever we’d take a road trip anywhere. Which was just fine with me. I’d sit beside you, staring out at the moving scenery or memorizing your profile. Sometimes I’d fall asleep to the gentle rhythm of the car treading along the asphalt and then we’d hit a bump or pothole in the road and I’d be jolted into wakefulness. 2. You liked to hum along to the songs on the radio. Bluegrass, especially. You always seemed to know every mournful melody. But they all sounded the same to me. 3. Remember the night we drove back from Lake Anna? The back roads were so dark, we could only see as far as the headlights reached. But that was enough, you said. The only other light was the moon, which seemed to follow us every which way the road curved.

Stephanie Bento is a writer, cellist, and photographer based in Washington, DC. In her creative work, she is interested in exploring the ephemeral. Stephanie’s work has appeared in jmww, The Vignette Review, and Firefly Magazine, among others. Find her on Twitter @saudadebelle or visit her website at www.saudadebelle.com.

Photo by Matt MacGillivray

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