Old Fruit by Hattie Atkins
From the upstairs window, I see him appear. The young boy – running on legs as thin as matchsticks – comes into view at the end of the street. […]
From the upstairs window, I see him appear. The young boy – running on legs as thin as matchsticks – comes into view at the end of the street. […]
5.30: DAWN The boy with the body of a man lies inert. Lips that habitually crack a smile, now still. Chest barely moving. Long legs bare, thin, immobile. The police officer gestures to the door. […]