On lonely dark cold Prague winter days all one can do is drink heavily and contemplate their minuscule existence. But my grief was deeper. Two months out of a job, I was beginning to run out of options. My tiny shack of an apartment was falling apart and I didn’t have enough money to pay for electricity or gas next month. With tears fueled by cheap white Australian Bush and self-pity, I suddenly glanced over at the rough dirty-grey brochure I got at the supermarket yesterday, having spent the last 150 crowns on booze and bread, in true Czech starving artist fashion.
New fiction by Katya Luca.