Thorn Apple
Ruthanne stopped apologizing years ago.
I gave some old stories a little love and polish. Find them here. They are my personal favourites.
Ruthanne stopped apologizing years ago.
The air tastes like ammonia and bleach and something underneath both.
I can make it ring.
She watches the blue at the root of the flame.
The box says forty-two pieces. I’ve counted three times
The room is cold. A hospital cold that lives in the walls.
Three flowers, a knife, and the burden of knowing what mercy costs.
She whispered it aloud. Her voice. Lower, gruffer.
Forever now. Somehow that made it matter less.
Mirror. Signal. Breathe.
Between panes of glass, choice slips away.