Year
All in Creative Writing
To my left are shelves full of bread. Olive, brown and white sourdough - bubbled and crisp like sunburnt skin. There is a pigeon nodding along in search of crumbs. Flakes of pastries scatter the floor, falling like dandruff on jeans, on shoes. They are still serving in takeaway cups. Earl grey to take away but sit in and suck up the tea stains on cardboard. How muggy - no mugs. The lid is turned upside down, patterned with spots of moisture like bathroom mould.
The cloud is thick and fast-moving, tempestuous in its will, mesmerising tired eyes with grey and silver shadow. The bulging under-belly rumbles deep overhead as white streaks crackle and fizz, cutting woolly fists like hot spears. A heaviness hangs in the air, dank above the moving trees - there is a certain fluidity to their movement - a graceful sway that jars with the ferocity of the wind. I place a warm palm on the window and my fingertips are traced by cold drops of rain. Slither down the glass; twist into each other - those transparent veins vying for the earth. It stirs something in me. Teaspoons chinked on glass skulls of thought. Messy, illuminating, a wild-eyed girl stuck behind two glass panes.
