Harold blinked once, twice; a tear running down his cheek. “There was no sugar in that,” he gasped.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Harold screamed, the cup falling from his hands to shatter against the red terracotta tiles, a spray of liquid spewing from his mouth as his head twisted to one side. It became etched on Frederick's memory as if in slow motion -- the individual globules of liquid each describing a perfect mathematical arc from his nephew’s lips to the floor; pieces of willow pattern tearing from their neighbours and joining in a brief dance as they died to the sound of cymbals.