pace the pavement, punctually tired.
act, and try to convince yourself.
the sketchbook is splayed across the table, thin gauzy papers stacked in a bundle several inches tall.
let's hit the road. (you never say it, but we go anyway)
lightning rattled the old tree on the clifftop, thunder crackling through the air in the worst weather she could have hoped to find. she set the vessel on the ground, hovering it several inches and creating a fire below. this was perfect weather; the conditions were more than ideal for this ritual. the gown she …
the red curtain falls, hem skimming the stage;
she stitches the gown in layers of purple, four different shades of dark and hand-dyed to suit her exact criteria. it all but ruins her eyes; she stares so long, so hard at the stitching in fading light, rousing herself when she truly cannot see any more. embroiders patterns across in gold, luscious patterns crafted …
she dives into the water, the undisturbed pool barely rippling as she breaks the surface.
this happens again and again.
I have a fledgling lit mag named Ravens in the Attic.