Hands, a Short Story by Helena Mallett


Cawing crows screech over old cathedral walls as sun shines down on green blanket lawns and locals and tourists share an early summer’s day.  Inside, the Botticellian cellist plays sweet, sonorous sonatas to a small clustered congregation. Pushing through heavy oak doors I find the warmth of an unexpected crowd and his picturesque patchwork paintings.

She however, paints of you with bloodied death on your hands, although they are almost clean when you hold mine.


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