Creation, Colorado

A tiny town with a tiny city hall, so tiny the city hall was the post office, jail, courtroom, library, fire station, and barbershop. On our way someplace else, we stopped there.

The mayor was the city clerk. In a bright blue shirt and turquoise jewelry, he was as wrinkled and hard as a walnut, eyes bright pinpoints of light hidden among folded skin.

The city hall had a dirty floor, grit, and hair.

The mayor called his wife/deputy. She was the witness. Discovering why we were there, she smiled like a sunrise.

Between two barber’s chairs, we were married.

Stephen D. Gibson
Stephen D. Gibson

Stephen D. Gibson studied writing at Purdue University and the University of Houston. His fiction has appeared in The Southeast Review, Quarterly West, Western Humanities Review, Citron Review, and elsewhere. He lives with his family in Utah.