by Sian Evans
The kids were playing in the garden that afternoon, screaming with glee as they chased each other. She stood at the window watching them, the knife in her hand, her palm red with the juice from the apple peel. She sliced the apple, divided it onto two plates and placed them on the kitchen table just as the phone rang. Mrs Peters, it’s Joan from the home, I’m so sorry, your mother died an hour ago. The sun crawled behind the willow tree and the laughter continued from the garden. The apple slices browned.
Sian Evans is currently undertaking a BA HONS degree in English Literature and Creative Writing at The University of Salford.