Audrey Friedman

The Ring

Once hidden beneath a lingerie and lilac sachet was a ruby twinkle, its color rivaled only by a fine Merlot. Now its owner’s blood has not yet cooled, and the jewel is on the eldest daughter’s finger, a finger often tipped with accusation and pointed with malice. She called her ailing mother’s cleaning lady, visiting nurses, even the grocery delivery boy, thieves, and now she’s on the phone with her sister. “Mama’s nosy landlord probably came into the apartment while we met with the undertaker. He must have swiped the ring. After all, he’s the only one who still has a key.”

an osprey dips into
his own reflection
craving his alter-ego’s fish