She threw her coat on top of the bed and lay down beside it. She pressed her bulbous fingers against her belly, probing the veins as though they were fat roots. The scent of decay filled her nostrils.

After a while, a snowdrop pushed through the bed to join her.

Joan Gilfillan likes to read so much that she sometimes forgets she can write.  One day, she will be a great author, if her memory doesn’t fail her first.