I try to write 100 words everyday. Try. No more than 100 words and no less. This was my first piece.
A path wound drunken and sure toward the unreachable horizon where it met the sky between a stubborn cactus and a humble stone cottage. There, a round, old and hooded betty stirring porridge for her grandchildren, three, face as stern as the un-malleable mortar that bound the stone-paved footpath stood guarding the door to the blue. I gave her a hundred pieces of gold and a wry smile. With that the aged lass hunched by age and toil grunted for the shepherd’s boy to let open the door and let me through beyond the now cloudy blue. The atmosphere parted. (20Feb11)
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