Marjorie Daw

I lie from morning till night on a lounge, staring into the hot street. Everybody is out of town enjoying himself. The brown-stone- front houses across the street resemble a row of particularly ugly coffins set up on end. A green mould is settling on the names of the deceased, carved on the silver door-plates. Sardonic spiders have sewed up the key-holes. All is silence and dust and desolation.


Genre: Literary Fiction