Thoughts are fragments of fire, flickering and dancing on the periphery of cognition; embers rising into the night on thermal drifts of hope, only to be consumed by the frigid darkness.
A friend has laid down a challenge to a few of us, we’re to enter the Scottish Book Trust’s monthly 50 word competition until one of us wins it. March’s prompt was a watch; here’s my first attempt, not sure it works but things can only improve:
He tilted his watch towards the smattering of light escaping the streetlamp; forty minutes late. She’d demanded to meet, then left him freezing in the night. He cursed her, and flagged a taxi.
“You’ll be quicker walking, traffic’s no’ moving. Bus’s hit some lassie just up the road.”