Francine picked at the stitches, removing them one by one, each a separate, deliberate act.
In the hearth a log shifted as those beneath it burnt away. Sparks glittered momentarily before extinguishing themselves. She glanced up at the sound it made, fingers never stopping, never ceasing to pick, pick, pick.
Stuart is absent without leave from the majority of life and finds that writing helps him remain that way — he occasionally blogs a story at www.diamondsanddross.blogspot.com.