He parked his car in the multi-story, got out and breathed the cold air in. The rain swayed in through the upper open plan area like a slow swarm of midges. The sky was the colour of a 4B pencil.
“The soil’s not very good.” he said. She crouched down next to him and shone her torch onto the area where his hands delved into the earth like he was baking bread. It was just past midnight and the street was the black of an iced over lake.
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He stepped from The Tube and walked through the station. It was still a sun-filled early evening when he emerged onto the street. He carried a cream shopper bag over his shoulder with meat-free burgers and halloumi nestled together inside.
He thought, more than anything in the world, that there was nothing worse than holes.
The last straw came when he was walking down the street one day in London. He was looking at how Tower Bridge stood majestic against the pure blue spring sky, its two sibling towers tall above The Thames, and then the next minute his knee hit the pavement and his hand darted out in front of him to take the strain, and he was staring at the stone path so close to his face it took him a moment to fathom what had just happened.
Despite it’s brevity, February was a hectic month for Folded Word — both at our New Hampshire base as well as across the country and the Atlantic, with the Folded bloggers and authors who’ve recently been featured on our blog and in new chapbooks.
From one side of the building, down the sandstone steps, the library hugs the corner and the theatre waits below a yawn of concrete plaza. On the other side, through the double doors, fountains leap from the pavement in the square and Italian restaurants work from lunch till late at night.