Fiftieth by Iris Macor
12:34 PM | Author: Glen Binger
Fiftieth by Iris Macor

They hang ribbons, crepe paper marvels, and sprinkle gold confetti. By afternoon, they drink imported beer instead of domestic swill. Clusters of lavender on the tables wilt, and so do they. One sighs, falls, the spark forever gone. They drag him out on a stretcher and the party is over.




Iris Macor lives and writes in North Carolina where she mucks stalls by day and studies Shakespeare by night. She does neither well.
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