IT IS BENDING into the wind as it passes from left to right across the darkening skyline. Angles overlay flatness. A black spider on a gray blanket. White darts spike the firmament. Then land and arrange themselves on the lamp posts, beaks jabbing, heads wrenched backwards, framing screams. It, the thing describing the arc of the hill, turns hollow eyes towards the sound, then disappears behind a waterfall pouring upwards from the sullen rocks. She is all legs and umbrella — red shoes, red parasol. Her gait is a skip, her flowery dress swirls. The little feet carve swathes through the damp grass, uncovering the secret ramblings of a madman. Or a prophet. She reads the words as she lays them bare. Laughs, but they hold no meaning for her. It is all about color and movement with her. From afar, a cryptic light pulses at the edge of the world. Rain starts, its idle droplets forming crescent moons on the cold windowpane. Endless possible worlds. Like this one perhaps? — SUE FRAZER
Sue Frazer has experimented with prose and poetry all her life. Now retired, she feels that the insights and experiences gained by surviving 66 years on this planet, together with the skills learned by joining a creative fiction group have given her new inspiration.