ichabod123
She placed the ladle across the kettle, like a rickety bridge over a brewing chasm.
On the fir branch, in broad daylight, stood the snow white owl. Carson handed the binoculars to Mr Finch who had demanded to know whether it was a male or female. "See for yourself."
They were probably from the same background as the officers; farmboys, far away from the fields and hearth where they had grown up, now thrown into 'the real world', which was what Sergeant Compton called the sandy lawn outside the barracks.
The had got rid of the old theatre, Manny's books, and the drugstore, so that the street could be widened into its present state.
The mast lay broken on the beach, little crabs inspecting it sideways. The girl was draped in white.
A drizzle of snow magic; crystal, reaction, solution.
This was a person for whom she shouldn't be responsible. The blues were nothing like her pieces of hazel; the big batch of tow on the little bugger's head was a gift from someone else, some other woman still revered and dreamed of.
He was not certain. It was something else. A sense of his eyes darting around, never settling within hers. Always elsewhere.
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snowwhitecertainsenseeyesdartingsettlingelsewhereresponsiblebluespieceshazelbatchtowbugger'shead