Short Stories & Poetry
Kenneth Manuel Innvær Andersen
toxic coffee
I was sitting in the café, writing, when she gently opened the door and walked into the room with light, gentle steps. The quality of the room changed. Memories came rushing back. I hadn’t felt the warmth of her presence since I was in the same room as her three years ago—when she died in my arms.
black clothes
I was outside in the daylight, and someone had seen me. They were wearing light clothes. I hadn’t seen them, but they had seen me, and in the light, everyone could see me. I didn’t want to run. If I ran, they would run after me; if I ran, they would see me even clearer. They must not see me; if they saw me, if they really saw me, I would die.
