STORYSPACE: Imagination in a box
It could be the quiet cold of a coming snow, the waiting out as if for a package in the mail. The hushed anticipation that bursts out in unanticipated ways; riding around like an Indian brave, warpaint as bold as the wild Pinto he commands with his thighs.
I’m writing like it’s my last will and testament and the final draft is due by midnight.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology