by W.J. Preston

Bedridden, I ate nothing for days.  Gradually came paper-thin
noodles boiled in lemon water, salt-less crackers they called
saltines and half cups of chamomile.  Unable to escape I assumed
nothing happened in the world beyond my bedroom.  Light
changed as it always had, doves cooed in the hollows of the house,
once the sound of a woman laughing, two men yelling in a strange
tongue, the old church bells down the road and the occasional car
passing by, but the restless silence seemed to be the most
unbearable thing.

by W.J. Preston

                                                                       For KX

The whole house is filled with her ghostly presence: the black-
on-black paisley scarf that hangs from the kitchen door, the
photograph of Delphi when winter traveled on a ribbon of wind,
a red heart taped to a crack on the wall, the lilac bed sheets
that were given as a gift, a stolen cup hiding in the cupboard,
a t-shirt folded neatly and tucked away in the drawer, a sweet-
smelling perfume in the medicine cabinet and nothing else.


W.J. Preston currently lives and works in Athens, Greece.  His
work has been published in numerous online and print journals
throughout Europe and North America and has recently appeared
Studio and The Innisfree Poetry Journal.    

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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 9, Number 1
(Spring 2014)

Copyright © 2014
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.