She was dancing barefoot at the festival. Flower-crowned, hands lifted to catch the sunrise, beads and bangles clattering. The ancient stone circle rang with music, wild chants. She claimed she’d met witches there, and real fairies. Pretended she’d stay with them.
We searched afterwards. Found only flitting shadows, faint laughter.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
nice!
I can see it, Deborah! I can see it, hear it, and feel it all! Well done!
Beautiful! I could see her world through your words.