Sunday, 21 June 2015


by Grace Black

Star-crossed lovers die and fleeting moments burn like bricks. Yet, we do this thing exchanging vows, walking aisles of ash as if redemption lies at the wake. Nothing in common, just a “pretty face”. Rice fed birds explode. But no one sticks around to see. A tradition steeped in harm and waste. Empty tin cans rust. Discordant clang.

The sanguine English countryside, my china cabinet is filled with transferware. Dishes that remind me of the bloodied bird and a place I’ve never been but walk by everyday inside my living room. A room for life where I’ve come to die.

Author bio: Grace Black writes poetry and flash fiction and has been published in Unbroken, Pidgeonholes, East Coast Ink, 101 Words, and more. Her first collection of poetry "Three Lines" was recently published and is available on Amazon. More of her writing can be found on her blog


Omens is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.

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