Hope is a thing with tufted wings, wrapped in cotton candy, sweet on the tongue as it melts. It is something intangible and unscientific. We have no empirical data. Hope exists in defiance of the logic of discovery.
This is a love story. The type of story where the star-crossed find each other, and intertwined they bend with the wind, bouncing back to stand stronger and taller.
This is a happy story. When things bend, they become beautiful and interesting.
This is a sad story. Materials can only bend so far before they snap.
“It’s the drones,” he said.
I focused on the sheen of sweat coating his upper lip, stubble breaking the surface and reminding me of the years when they burnt the fields after the harvest. The claggy scent of burnt straw, a long way from the cheap, acidic odour of some kind of low-rate deodorant that leached from him.
