The lace was frayed at the edges worn and old – yellow like the books you were so very fond of   You had rubbed at the needlework, running your fingers across the embroidered lilies; your hands— clammy and cold, had pinched those petals; plucking them as if they had been Real   I had…

This content is for Basic Member, Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription, and Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription members.
Log In Register
%d bloggers like this: