Placing her cup of tea on the back step Sophie walked into the garden and stood barefoot on the lawn.
Closing her eyes she said one word and the word was ‘Begin’. Droplets of ink caught on the river mist, becoming swoops as broad as any bird flight.The other words followed like floods after winter and hung there, moist and alive. Wisps of black tangled in the net of the sky. Sentences scented the air, and left smudges on her skin.
As the sun began to rise, burning the haze to clear, she clothed herself in the story, finials draped across shoulders, stems against her spine, until every inch of her was coated with words.