This was a piece I submitted last year to a competition. No result. Another piece to help me practice.
But I’d like you to have a read and tell me what you think.
She looked up from the sock she was darning, needle paused mid-stitch, and watched the missile burn across the blank expanse of blue sky, rending it in two.
“Where is it going?” asked her granddaughter.
“To war.”
The smoke trail began as a small tear, slowly expanding, making the rift wider, ragged. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the blue pushed through the vapour trail, dissipating the smoke.
“There will be another,” said the grandmother.
“When will we have peace?”
The needle wound through the fabric and pulled the two halves together.
“When we have learned to mend our hearts.”
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