100 words: Winter

Wrote this straight after listening to Sian S. Rathore on Sadcore Dadwave. Had to be done…

 

And winter will bring four owlets dead of bee stings, some still protruding from their feathers when the keepers open their nesting box. The builders climb to the pent houses and strip down an ill-built wall then build it again, perhaps no better. Their florescent jackets mix with the chill in the air and you try not to be sick, the champagne you drank last night bubbling up. You notice your Miro postcard is a take on Scoobie Doo, and you try to paint the eye of Jupiter. It looks at you, solemn and red, from within the glossy print.

 

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