Burn by

The airy cafes had their windows open all day. They served crushed berry and ice smoothies, and you could sit beneath the awnings or inside by a window in the cool shade, with the breeze slipping through your fingers and hair, and look out over the bay. We spent all day writing our dreams on folded napkins.

In the evening, we would wander down to the beach, the ruby sun smoking on the horizon. A ring of faces gathered around embers of driftwood; the surf gushed over the soft, pearlescent shore. We threw the napkins into the flickering flames, and watched them crinkle into black ash, the thin strands of our words curling up in loose threads. Up, over our heads and into the sky. This became a ritual, until we had no dreams left. I remember her clearly: Aztec eyebrows, the curve of faraway stars and the turn of the world reflected in the tears on her face.




Joseph Lewis is a monkey at a typewriter who occasionally produces work coherent enough to be considered fiction. Currently he is making peanuts while he works as an English language and literature tutor in London.


Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash


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