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She sits at the bus station, still as the moment between two breaths. What do you do with yourself the morning after that single night, she thinks. What do you feel — hope, hate, regret? A crumb of leftover love? Her hands are fragile and spent. He said they were beautiful, her hands. He kissed… Continue reading a.m. story
Is it February Seventeenth?, Manu wonders, standing on the kerb of Church street. The flowers in his hand, where did he get them from? Not from the Pharmacy, he hasn’t crossed the street yet. Wild daisies with curly roots and soil stuck to them. From the riverbank then, he thinks, but has no recollection of… Continue reading Flowers for Meredith
Rostislava Pankova-Karadjova 