It’s winter in spring. The sun pours into my office, daring my shivering body to believe it can melt the mountain of snow in my backyard. Perched on my exercise ball in front of my computer, I wonder what it is I have to say today, if anything at all. I notice the coloured sticky notes everywhere, reminding me not to forget anything. The sun blazes from the window and burns my arm. I put my lips on it, my tongue. I want to taste the heat, swallow it.

The sun hits my leg. I roll back to the summer I was 16…

…cigarette smoking, a flowery cotton skirt, driving too fast on the Montreal expressway, radio blaring, arm swinging out the open window of my mother’s gold Duster as I floor the gas, keening voices screaming the soundtrack of my youth. I flick my smoke out the window like a boss, and turn off the exit.

The butt boomerangs back into the car to carve a perfect hole through my favourite skirt and the soft flesh of my upper thigh. My leg is on fire. I scream. The radio screams. I can’t remember the song.

Sun through Clouds


To support more more more stories, please click the golden button:

Donate Button

Or visit the GIFTS PAGE: the home of the art I have to exchange for your lovely donations.



I love to hear from you.

Click FOLLOW THIS BLOG VIA EMAIL and join the global party. Don’t forget to send back the confirmation email you’ll receive.

For an almost daily fix, FOLLOW BTF on InstagramTwitter, and Facebook.

I post every two weeks, more or less.