there's a thorn on the rose you left in a vase. it's as sharp as it looks. jabbed my finger on the prickle trimming the stem. new water, and done. there's a card i have yet to read. maybe later - i hope you will stay.
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