Old Man Rabbit sat at the door of his little house eating a nice, ripe, juicy turnip. It was a cold, frosty day, but Old Man Rabbit
Freshly dead, she was pinned to the desk by a knife. Smears of blood oozed between his fingers and dripped to the floor.
They did not give me money.
There was never a version in which they were going to give me money.
“I am not a warring man.” Igor watched the old man lead a German Shepherd through the rubble which Berlin had become.
On those frigid nights, we’d pop up from the subway wind tunnel into the blustery city street, padding past the lamplit haze, chuckling, our blood humming, eager for the ales