Maggie’s smoke rose and circled around the brim of her calm blue hat. Counting the clouds from the window of her hotel room, she pondered the idea of a new project, made of her hair. An innocent quilt, she thought. No slave labour, all her own work. She did not usually wear hats indoors, but it was the same as the sky, acctually a kind of purple. Hold that thought and paint it.

With no camera to hand, a bony dog wandered into the street from nowhere, an aeroplane flew overhead which was so small and distant it must have been wary of Maggie’s insect repellant, which was bought for one of these many quaint shopfronts – the one with the sign of the neon green cross.

The air must have done something to her blood. Something logical and sciencey must account for the difference in the air, and how good and different it felt.  The boney dog sang a small and melancholy tune. An old, jolly drinking song, but not as jolly as it might be, coming from his canine mouth. A drunken man came to stroke the dog; the dog backed away and disappeared between another quaint pair of buidings. The old man bottled, for tomorrow’s day of drinking, the sympathy of a dog – which is a valuable gift.



3 thoughts on “Maggie.

  1. Amazing it worked. I can’t tell you the synchronicitously amazingness of your perfect prose, PPeter. The macchine works. Hallelujah, said the old priest, holding his jiggling belly, haha

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