Concise Prose. Enough Said.
purple feathers backround pattern

I cut him a peony, I left the door unlocked

By Ania Vesenny

The grass under the apple trees licks my calves, soaks the hem of my skirt.
I walk back to the house through a swarm of whining mosquitoes.

I brush my lips against the petals and nudge the white peony into a vase. “Lilah,” I hear him whisper. The heat bursts through my stomach, my legs, my arms. The edge of the table swirls away from my hands.
The shards scatter.

I exhale into the empty house.

Doctor Zhivago is bookmarked with his photo. I can’t read. I sit down to knit, but I lose my count. The ribbons of the sunset turn ashen.

I stand by the window, wilting peony in my hand, shards of glass stinging the soles of my feet.



Ania Vesenny was born and raised in the former USSR. She currently lives in Toronto, Canada. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Per Contra, SmokeLong Quarterly, Cezanne’s Carrot, Heavy Glow, Mad Hatter’s Review, FRiGG, Grimm Magazine, and Staccato. She is an associate editor for Vestal Review.

Photo "Heavenly" courtesy of Diane Miller, Newark, DE.

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