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Flash fiction by Martha Lane
Swaddled in a blizzard of flowers, I think about the last time I saw snow. The last time I calloused the palms of my hands on the thick ropes that hang between the bells. Immense and pendulous, the cathedral’s own perennial herbs. The last time I saw Freddie.
The breeze blows, wakes the meadow, makes it breathe.
Butterflies surround me, fill me.
The tower peals, chiming the clouds into mist. I stroke circles over the stretched skin of my stomach and listen to the band of bell ringers, and the notes missing from the melody they are playing.
Martha Lane writes flash fiction about nature, loss and the sea. She lives up North now, but the Fens are in her blood. Tweets @poor_and_clean.
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