Bug Hollow

by Michelle Huneven

She had to be careful, even now, as she shifted up to fourth gear on the open highway again, to not reinfect herself with that sticky, toxic terror that life—this life, which gave you the beautiful sparkling world—squashed you like a gnat.

The dog was so small and, she now saw, clearly doomed, the surrounding space so empty and inhospitable. Tears sprang from her eyes. Her chest ached. In fact, she’d never seen any painting so painful and so beautiful. Goya knew too that life, this beautiful life, is unbearable.