The horizon is a considered slant of birch and gorse. It has been without disruption since the fox and its cubs, active last Monday.
Inside, I’m now more aware of movement and my eye is surprised by the flash of freckles that is my arm, shifting from horizontal indolence. I shriek at my foot. My reflection scares me. My left eye is merciless.
I’ve begun to wonder if my hand will betray me, were I to miss its legerdemain; a careless clutch at the stair rail, a pill too many, a nick with a blade.
I don’t look out anymore.
Orson loves words, reading and writing. He retired early from the commercial world to pursue his creative bent. @CBC pupil, #VWG, pieces in Virtual Zine Mag, Reflex Fiction. He lives on the edge of Sherwood Forest, UK. He has a work in progress in the ‘thriller’ genre.