It’s a fine line between fiction and non-fiction sometimes, and I have had a good time enjoying the blur in the writing of my latest piece, The Sun Alone at Sunset, which is published in Issue 13 of the online literary journal The Rusty Toque. Here is a snippet of the opening. To read the rest of the piece, and of the issue, kindly migrate here.
The first time you left me to spend the day alone at your place but withheld your key and I didn’t ask for one because we’ve learned to control that impulse to charge forward, to compress the gains of years into months, or weeks.
This morning, you looked so easy to harm, hunched over your nightstand gathering up your needs for the day, one by one. But now, laid out on your back for a hard-earned nap, you are an expanse of solid ground. Lying on my side next to you I am an island of rolling hills, observing from across wrinkled water the gently rising and falling flatland of your supine body. Outside, the sun lowers like a plump girl towards the dark horizon, nervous about what awaits her once she slips beyond sight of you and I, who have promised to be on the balcony to see her off.
Rebecca Fisseha, Writer. 