• Tea-small_medium
    PROSE: The Third Thing by Sian Melangell Dafydd (Welsh)

    I was half way up the mountain when I thought, – only then mind you – I didn’t cook that bacon. I’m almost sure of it.

    The bad taste won’t go away, as if my tongue was black. Which meant you were a liar, back when I was in school – if your tongue turned black. 

  • PROSE: Lost Luggage by Jordi Puntí (Catalan)

    We have the same memory.

    It’s very early. The sun has just come up. All three of us – father, mother and son – are yawning sleepily. Mum has made some tea, or milky coffee, and we duly drink it. We’re in the living room, or the kitchen, quiet and still like statues.

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