Sometimes, being an editor just takes your breath away. Quite literally, after I'd read the story above and selected it as my worthy Editor's Choice, this was the very next one to arrive – Gordon
Nothing makes sense in this street: every fence is riddled with bullet holes, and the fragments of walls hold remnants of roofs like funny hats. People ant around the jigsaw puzzles of their blasted lives, still trying to keep the pattern. Their children play war, screaming, shooting plastic guns and calling each other Putin.
I stand in my father’s shattered backyard, plucking cherries. So big, sweet and meaty, I can’t help crying silently into my palms. Because it doesn’t make sense. They are so delicious this summer, so exceptionally good, but no one is left to make the cherry jam.
I stand in my father’s shattered backyard, plucking cherries. So big, sweet and meaty, I can’t help crying silently into my palms. Because it doesn’t make sense. They are so delicious this summer, so exceptionally good, but no one is left to make the cherry jam.
