Gave pebble-dash a whole new
meaning. (In Scotland they add a concrete
skim and call it harling. Likely hurts
no less but the blood-spots not so well-defined.)
Gave my back what looked like a nasty
case of measles (except where the cord wound round me, tying arms to torso,
added stripes.)
My old man.
Don’t need to tell me the drugs don’t
work; old before his time with his never-ending quest to tame the butterfly he’d
caught.
My mum.
Who’d said one day he weren’t my Dad, adding to his life, his love for her, a black and bittersweet symphony.[Another offering for Prediction Fiction, this time a stand-alone, with thanks, of course, to The Verve]
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