My father started fights in bars. The brutalist architecture of his days was legendary.
He was proud to be blue-collar, to break things with his hands and rebuild them in his image. Oak. Rosewood. My mom. The bones in my fingers.
In our house, silence was an act of survival.
Julian Dores lives in Brussels, Belgium. He enjoys writing fiction and taking candid photographs of everyday life on the street. You can follow him @JulianDores or on his website.
Our eyes met and she shot daggers of hatred. Could she know that her man had dropped his mask of “playing nice” with me? That we had both been victims?
We stood there, confronting unspeakable truths, while our object of love, bereft of these feelings, happily danced with the crowd.
Divya is an IT nerd by day and a blogger by night. She’s also a coffee junkie and a Cancerian. She lives in India.
Next door, violence prowls. A storm opens dark eyes, tears falling down, down, down.
Shhh, stop crying. See that window? Open it. Breathe. Now lean outwards slowly, slowly…
SLAM! Mother enters, eyes bruised, body bruised, freshly battered from a knockdown fight.
“What are you doing? Get back in. He’s gone.”
Elizabeth Cheung, from Hong Kong, blogs at recusant-reconditus.blogspot.com.