The demolition crew didn’t speak; they arrived in their crawler crane, set up, and struck. Space after space—a broken heart, wedding bells, a joyous birth, a thousand banquets, a million dance steps, three seductions, a betrayal, a midnight vigil, a wake. The wrecking ball swung back, then drove away.
Ralph Goldswain writes microfiction for pleasure in his London home. He also likes experiencing all the things London offers.
Loved this, Ralph. So very well done.