The Golden Greenhouse
The jar shatters. Not with a bang, but with a sigh. A thin, high-pitched tear in the glass that sounds like a bone snapping under a heavy boot. You stand in the kitchen. The morning light is gray. It filters through the window and lands on the shards. They glitter. They are beautiful. They are dead. You do not clean them up. You stare. The juice is spreading. A dark pool on the linoleum. It...
0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews