Fiction | Short Story

Dead Jasmine

On the anniversary of his death, I put a stem of jasmine in a glass vase on the windowsill. The flower’s fragrance a bridge between this world and the next.

Did I cut myself? Did I? Maybe I did, no, yes, did I? I don’t know.

He’s back, he’s back, he’s back

Are you my nanny’s lover?

Why should I?


Why would I be afraid of her?

Tighter, tighter