Something new I'll start posting. Recovery Writing - flash prose, McCarthy-styled musings, whatever you want to call it.
The sharp teeth of the winter chill bites on each broken branch, gnaws on each retiring leaf, sinks into the lapsing of each tired tide. Behind the beautiful and monstrous mountain, majestic behind the flurried film of snow, is a red valley. Unlike the wilting green of the grass plains. Unlike the yellow flesh of a baked potato. Red like anger, romance and rust. Red in winter. Defined against the white – grey – silver – sky that smells like cold and smells like the concept of buried pine trees. Is the world compressed? Or wider – like each swifter stride? The lashing of the wind is a welcome whip after an unsatisfying day.