By Tracy Royce

The snub-nosed revolver reclined amid the camisoles, bashful at the back of the drawer. Satin swathed its pink pearl grip. How it yearned to be held again, its cylinder caressed, each vacant chamber filled. Then the officers arrived with their rough hands. And the coarse embrace of the evidence bag. 

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Tracy Royce’s words appear in Bending Genres, Blink-Ink, Does It Have Pockets?, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. You can find her on Bluesky.