Something broken.  Spread out and unforgiving of its violence, a fruit salad ending.  The seeds shrivel, finding no purchase on baked concrete, gasping in the dust thick air.  Liquid arms reach out in silent desperation for whatever sustenance is available, but finding only evaporation, fade as flicks of spit.  And yet, the contrasts of red and green play wild in the August sun, shattered splats paint bit parts of utter joy. 


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About Roy Smith

Roy Smith lives in the Medway Towns, where he works with young people and spends a lot of time writing nonsense and enjoying himself. Most of his writing happens at night and other inconvenient moments, when he is regularly interrupted by his dog and the desire to play old video games.

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