17 2014

Granny was sitting in her nest all alone, basking in her autumn berry glow. She was always alone now, all alone swimming in her gin. Granny’s sloe gin. Fatal said Mum and Dad when no one was there. Granny’s poison, mentioned Aunty, when no one was listening. Granny had dust-grey skin which shimmered and reflected in such a way it looked so fragile, real fragile not ‘you can’t touch this it’s fragile’ fragile. So fragile he wondered if he touched her she and he would burst into ash and they’d swirl around together, turned to ash like the dust in the green light. ‘Ah, the invisible one,’ she whispered. She beckoned him in with a shrivelled, grey hand and he followed into the hedgerow glow. Dead branches and twigs from blackthorn lay on the table with her paints, looted of berries. ‘What are you doing here, little one?’ she cooed, her bity stare. Her death-cold eyes glared back at him, layered with a translucent sweetness. Sweet like Mummy when you cut yourself, sweet like the bitter berries in the hedgerow. Under the sweetness and the cold was sad. He wanted to say something, he really did! He opened his mouth but dead air escaped and no noise came out. ‘Nothing? Then go away. I’m busy.’ She swept him out, slammed the door and drew the curtains around the firelight. He was in the deadly darkness. He was alone.

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