Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Heritage


Cold drips incessantly from the overhanging roof of the greenhouse. Inside, where Lucy stares out from the embrace of date palm and fern, the heat is stifling. She turns away from the steamed-up windows and slides her feet through the undergrowth. Seconds later she has uncovered a skull, runic symbols etched across its pitted surface. She lifts it up to her face until she is staring into its empty sockets. Cold drips from these, too, a psychic echo of the rain beating on the glass roof. She breathed across the warm bone, her breath misting, and spoke. “Who am I?”

2 comments:

aims said...

'Cold drips from these too'

Like that alot. Conjures up many mental images for me.

Leatherdykeuk said...

Thanks Aims :)