Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Red sky at night, shepherds delight. Lottie never knew why the goodness was just for shepherds, not accountants like her mum. Her mum loved sunsets. Would stand still, her face reflecting something secret that would make Lottie shake her to bring her back, to stop her falling off Lottie’s world.


grace le maitre said...

Sky branch! Why don't you come down to meet me? Or is it always I that has to find you? You, the silent, stoic type. Don't pretend you're not warm for me too! The sun has agreed to rise and fall, a graceful bow, not just bobs and reluctant nods!

Kathryn said...

She gently dabbed at the canvas with the blue-grey and watched it blot into the pinky purple wondering whether she had diluted it too much, if it might spread too aggressively, seep into itself and consume the pink altogether. She hoped desperately that cells of immunity would win through.

Nik's Blog said...

Ooh, that was my favourite so far, Sarah!


douglas.bruton said...

Art remembers blotting paper on his desk, once, years back - pink and white and the ink spreading from the point of his dip-pen. Scratches on the page bleeding into blots, like spider tracks, or the reaching of trees across a sunset-sky, and clots in the branches, the scribble-nests of rooks.

douglas.bruton said...

And, Nik... if it's your favourite, post up something... s'only 50 words.



Nik's Blog said...

Douglas, Douglas. You win. I've done one (my second, in fact). ;)