Dean F. Hardy
Writer from Dublin, Ireland.
*All work here is owned by Dean F. Hardy*
- Top Story - January 2023
This PlaceTop Story - January 2023
Atticus Black. A glassy reflection to it that made him think of beached whales, slick with oil after a tanker spill. He blew smoke down into it and watched it swirl and linger like a fog. Slowly, it faded and the features of his face reappeared in disjointed form, fragmented in the rippled liquid. Fragmented, he thought. Pulled apart. The liquid settled further and his face came into clear view within it. Broken. He pulled on his cigarette, exhaled and brought the coffee to his lips.
The river mirrors whatever looks upon it. The river is, You.