The Pale Bonsai
Act I Olumide Ogunleye would later tell himself that the weight of the pot was the only thing that kept his hands from shaking, a heavy, clay anchor against the fever of his skin, but then, in the suffocating heat of the palace vestry, it felt less like a burden and more like a secret he was swallowing whole. He was a low-ranking scribe, a man who had spent thirty years grinding ink and copying...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews