Letters to The Summer God

Short fiction set in Berlin

I rest my head on your shoulder and watch the slow rise and fall of the space between your clavicle. You are the colour of terracotta, smooth and soft like unpicked fruit, and it seems strange to pull the hard white of the sheets around you. You laugh as I do so, like I’m a child playing with a doll.

Written by

24 year old with an awful lot to say about everything. Opinions entirely my own. Usually. madelaine@madelainehanson.co.uk

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