The Distant Temple
The pot shattered. It hit the floor. It broke. Thomas stood still. He held a shard. It cut his hand. Blood dripped. Red on white tile. He looked at the pieces. Porcelain. White. Blue flower. His mother’s pot. No. His father’s. No. His own. He bought it last week. He bought it in the market. He liked the blue. He liked the shape. It was heavy. It was solid. Now it was dust. And sharp glass....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews