Leila was sitting with her chin in her hands. Her eyes tracked the progress of a bee as it flew around a flower before finally settling inside it. ‘Who are you waiting for?’ Leila looked up suddenly, startled by the sudden voice. An old man was staring down at her, his eyes crinkled by the sides and his face solemn. ‘Oh,’ Leila cleared her throat, sitting up. ‘I’m just waiting for my friend.’ The man nodded and sat down on the other bench. Leila twisted her fingers in her lap

Nevanka was bleeding. It was apparent in the way red dripped through his fingers, all the way to his elbows and the way his fingertips were stained pink. But what he found much more nerve-racking was that he didn’t feel the blood. As he curiously watched the red trickle through his bare arm he wondered what had caused him to bleed in this way. Surely, he should’ve felt a wound that resulted in this much bleeding. Surely, there should’ve been some flinching, stabbing pain or n

Dedicated to my late friend Emille Laville There are many benches all around; in the cities, in the parks…everywhere. They say benches are powerful places, we can meet people while sharing a bench , have a moment of peace on it, we can read, listen to music, look at the view even if there’s nothing special about it or just sit and think. Bench are and will always be important as well as meaningful symbols of share, peace and empathy. All of us can be relieved of our own pain