Dipped in Snow
It was cold on the mountaintop. The winds bit into the little boy’s skin like so many ravenous beasts. His feet sank into the churning snow and each step was laboured. And his left...
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Take the Next Bus
I met death at a bus stop, on a cold Thursday evening. I think she thought it an apt metaphor. She was a rather disappointing figure, I must say, no black cowl, no scythe,...