There it was—the pine cone they had picked up on their honeymoon to Shimla. Lying in the corner. Gathering dust. Nothing but a sense of history to it. And too much trouble to restore to its past glory. Can’t throw it out either. Let it remain, until it disintegrates one way or another.
A child. A mirror. And you’re suddenly unsure if you should hope that it’s all about the genes, or not. Either way, you’re damned.
Back to the blog world. Hopefully, wiser. And shorter. This space is for short stories–really short. Under 100 words. I’d love for this to be collaborative. So if you would like to join, simply send me a message and I will add you as a collaborator–there are no rules. Only be decent.