Over the snow-weeping town somewhere in the crevices of China, two moons hung in the sky, pinned there like shimmering silver enamel discs. But one began to yellow and wilt. From there another story will unfold.
In the quiet outskirts of the mountain was a small, smoke-trailing cottage, where a wife and a husband's marriage frayed at the seams as years worn the land and the wife grew her back bent and fingers cracked, whilst the husband relished in the pleasures of younger women.
Hope bled slowly from the wife's chest, like a pricked wound that you couldn't feel because you wanted to ignore it existed. When colour drained from her, the moon was high and sullen with pulsing clouds. It seemed like a perfect time for a stroll in the wood.
So, when the husband had gone to bathe, the rushing of the tap disguising her footfalls on crooked floorboards, the wife slipped a fruit knife into her apron and crept into the night.
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THE DREAMER'S LAMENT
Short StoryIn the hearts of dreamers, lament will always linger. Sadness can bloom into the brightest, lambent shades, like the rain giving way to the phantom of a rainbow, like the promise of hope. But sorrow may also wind down a darker, colder path. Our hear...
