Thread

She carries with her, everywhere she goes, a long silvery thread, and at the end of each day she sits, and upon her leg, upon her knee to be exact, she places the thread, coiled, carefully, and watches it to make sure it doesn’t fall or blow away in the breezes that move through her room. And of course she falls asleep like this; and when she wakes each morning, at first she jolts a little at the thought, cold and sharp, that the thread might be gone, might no longer be on the knee, on the leg where she … Continue reading Thread

Just Martin

They’d been playing for most of the afternoon, despite the cold, but as soon as the light began to fade, their mothers began summoning them inside. Time for dinner. See you tomorrows were called with cheer as one by one they left the square, until eventually it was just Martin remaining. He watched the sky swell grand and purple, felt the cold turn piercing, and then made his way out of the square, back to the street, urban branches closing and tugging at his coat on the way. He emerged on the wrong side. The layout was strange and entrancing at this hour, and all roads lead home eventually, he’d been told, by someone at some time. And so he walked, passing long terraces of quiet houses, then he turned right because that felt right, then left because that felt right too.

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