Jack opened an IPA that had chilled in the ice melt. He planned to drink two more before crawling into his sleeping bag. In the meantime, he laid on a granite slab, looked up at the blackness, and told himself he was celebrating. But it was a lie. He’d lost his job due to covid. His girlfriend had moved back to Philadelphia. He had a masters in art history, yet Starbucks hadn’t responded to his job application. Jack was lost. But he was also amazed at what he could see. Absolutely nothing. Which had been the point of the hike.
When not busy raising an insane puppy, Jim Woessner works as a writer on a houseboat in Sausalito, California. He has an MFA from Bennington College. His publishing credits include The Daily Drunk, Flash Fiction Magazine, Close to the Bone, Adelaide Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, The Sea Letter, and others.