Yellow Roses


A picture of health - Editor

by Janet Baldey

The day after the funeral I knew I would have to leave the village. Its crooked streets, that I had once thought quaint, now seemed sinister as if dark secrets festered around each bend in the road.

George, of course, doesn’t understand. But then, he couldn’t be expected to. He has no idea of the part I played in Harry’s death.

“What do you mean? I thought you liked it here?” With an irritated shake of his newspaper, he had stared at me over the top of his spectacles.

I had lowered my head in a mute and miserable silence. I couldn’t meet his eyes and I couldn’t explain. Things had changed. Every day, the odour grew stronger and now its sickly scent permeates the whole house.

A few days ago I had stood, my nostrils flaring, trying to identify its source.





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