That was the last time he stopped believing. Believing in snow.
Snow had been in the stories she had told, but even those were
hard to find anymore. Where libraries and
book stores once were stood clinics.
Dispensaries. Wards. Gone were books, and gone were the
writers. You could always tell those
that came from the lineage of writers.
The muscles around their eyes were tight, straining to see just up
ahead. Furrowed brows and pursed lips
were give-aways. And they clustered
together, talking in furtive voices.
Their hands moved like quick, small birds. That’s how her hands moved. Like tiny daggers, emphasizing mere words.
(Just a short "finger exercise" from yesterday's writing.)
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