Look how the wheat is stirred by the breeze, says the guide and our necks undulate this way and that as if we are on a raft, feeling each ripple of the field. Impasto, she adds and I wait for Hugh’s theatrical whisper. Thickly textured he announces as the group moves on. I stay, looking at the rise and fall of flowing lines, swirls; each stroke says freedom, possibility.
Hugh doesn’t turn around to look for me. And so I listen to the swell of thoughts that I have long pushed down and let myself be carried out the door.
This story was shortlisted in the July monthly micro fiction competition.
About the author:
Catherine Ogston writes flash, short stories and longer fiction.