The steam rises, stroking the pane, not with tendrils because it is one continuous ascending stream of cloud. It catches my attention, away, to glance outside. The cobbles shine under fluorescent orange. A familiar image. But the church door across the street is under a stone arch wreathed with floating red lights that in reality…
Creative Writing, OldVenue
Creative Writing: A Handprint Hovers
The steam rises, stroking the pane, not with tendrils because it is one continuous ascending stream of cloud. It catches my attention, away, to glance outside. The cobbles shine under fluorescent orange. A familiar image. But the church door across the street is under a stone arch wreathed with floating red lights that in reality…