prose
Pen or Harpoon?
“It is time,” Sun says.
Again? I almost sigh; it’s pointless. I trudge towards the horizon, harpoon in hand.
Mirror
The reflection shatters into a thousand shards, resplendent, subversive, cutting edges catching light.
Piano
Her father sat her in front of a piano as a child, held her in his lap, brought music into her world.
