Sunwashed insight
The soft cries of gulls washed quietly across the room, drawn down into the sea breeze softened woven rug on the doorstep where Bobbins, the marmalade tabby who had adopted the Berkin's porch sat quietly sunning himself on the warm stones. The bell, afixed by careful hands at the apex of the door sat delicately silent but alert, its edge gleaming slightly in the golden light that poured through the glass like golden flame.
Quiet hands with matronly care gently scoop the day's recent victim from the bench, sliding quietly across finger-worn wood with a disapproving sound from above and quietly examining the long crack along the lenth of the forgotten toy, a play sword, dulled at the edges not by the fierce strikes of a man at war, but of the playful clack and rasp of childhood play at the sea side.
Dulled giggles chime merrilly in the distance as the gulls go silent, their bickering arrested by a momentary fright by the baker's hound, and Harold's once blue eyes flick up from the bench before him to quietly glance towards the door, drawing in a soft breath and watching the motes of dust circle lazilly in the sun warmed air, and the fingerprints on the glass. Reminding himself to give the door a polish, but not right now... Later, work to be done, those hands would return all too soon.
(Just a snippet of descriptive writing I had rolling in my head for a day or two)
Quiet hands with matronly care gently scoop the day's recent victim from the bench, sliding quietly across finger-worn wood with a disapproving sound from above and quietly examining the long crack along the lenth of the forgotten toy, a play sword, dulled at the edges not by the fierce strikes of a man at war, but of the playful clack and rasp of childhood play at the sea side.
Dulled giggles chime merrilly in the distance as the gulls go silent, their bickering arrested by a momentary fright by the baker's hound, and Harold's once blue eyes flick up from the bench before him to quietly glance towards the door, drawing in a soft breath and watching the motes of dust circle lazilly in the sun warmed air, and the fingerprints on the glass. Reminding himself to give the door a polish, but not right now... Later, work to be done, those hands would return all too soon.
(Just a snippet of descriptive writing I had rolling in my head for a day or two)