the mornings are a uniform shade of fog, slow to clear from the sky. on the corner of my desk, a potted flower droops, leached of colour. below my feet, there's the hum of a tiny heater, glowing orange warmth.
heart beats slower, drum tapering to the rhythm: petals being plucked. one dozen flowers in a vase, artificial, a worn-out symbol. tiny petal shreds, a guessing game played and the answer: to be told.
stained glass, uncovered by netting curtain stains the floor myriad shades. lingering bouquet in the kitchen; stained glasses litter the countertop. mixed flowers in glass, backdrop of blank white walls adds a touch of whimsy.
Flash Fiction July, 1. I've learnt to tell his transgressions by the flowers that are delivered to me. Every time it happens, they're delivered without fail, on a Wednesday morning. Somehow, the courier always manages to arrive just as I'm rinsing out my breakfast dishes and collecting my gym things together. I suppose he's specified… Continue reading Windowsill Garden