The Lilacs on the Mantelpiece

Short story, written at the dentist

he summer had given way autumn prematurely, the fruit souring on the branch beneath the unforgiving rain and the flowers withering beneath the weight of the cold. Not that you’d have known so in the concrete grate of tarmac and the taste of oil that ran in the city veins.

Yes. Here, there were two seasons, the hot season with the burning skin and the sharp gravel, and the cold wet rain that filled the city and drummed against your bones until you ached. Impossibly warm, then impossibly cold…