Barbed wire fences stretch, it seems, for miles into golden grasses, studded with tufts of fur, bleached bits of fabric, and the odd, transient plastic bag. Late afternoon, now, blue sky fading to pearl and opal in an unspectacular sunset. She does not notice. Head down, facing the wind, she walks, looking forward to its gentle push when she turns around.
A problem, these characters—wills of their own, doing and saying whatever they wish, completely disregarding her carefully-curated intentions. Now, the tale is tangled, previously-parallel lines crossed and knotted. Dispelling frustration with a deep breath, she patiently unravels the nest, seeking that one true strand.
Dusk whispers, and the temperature drops. Woodsmoke drifts on the air, and the first faint tinge of early-autumn snow. But she continues climbing, working her way back into the story, step by step, stitch by stitch, knitting her way toward the end.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
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