Your Custom Text Here
Barbara Clinton
The butterflies are spectacular, large, brown and speckled with yellow wing tips, and then there are smaller, yellow ones, purer, so tiny and delicate. They must surely have been together in some other time, some other era, the yellow and brown producing the beautiful dappled effect. . .
Read More
Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash
Mike had a recurring searing pain in the middle of his back. Every Sunday he was reduced to grunting and snarling like a wounded animal on his single bed in the corner of his single room, stained covers pulled up over his bloodshot eyes and overused mattress springs forcing their way into his ribs. It always eased off by Tuesday, but by then the necessities of life had ground him down into a depressed stump, and like clockwork he marched home via the supermarket and bought the cheapest high percentage alcohol they had. If he was lucky they would have Smirnoff on offer, but it was usually own brand ‘quality guaranteed’ bottles.
Magnezis-magnestic @ Unsplash
So George was dead. How she had loved him! She had fallen in love with him from the first moment they met. She had looked into his eyes and was seriously smitten. There was no going back and she knew it. They just fitted together, two peas in a pod, meant for each other. It was like destiny had determined their meeting. She had not intended going to the centre that day, but somehow found herself there, and as they say – the rest is history. They were rarely apart. Where you saw one you saw the other. If she was ever on her own people asked “how’s George - not with you today?” – almost surprised that she would be without him. She had wondered if the love affair would dwindle but it seemed to only grow. She missed him when apart or if she went on holidays - as flying was not for him, thereby she settled for staycations where they could be together.
Read More