A snippet of free fiction for you. It popped into my mind early this morning, came out of the space of meditation, as all my creativity does. It could be part of a new Prunella Smith book. Or not. Who knows. Creativity is a strange mistress. I’m in a mist. It’s so thick I can barely see past my fingertips. Grey. Everywhere. A white figure appears then disappears, just a flash of four pale arms and a flowing silk scarf. Four arms? I blink. I must have been mistaken. My feet take me forward. I’m not sure I want to walk where I can’t see, but I can’t stop, either. I have to know, have to see, have to connect—with what, I’m not sure. The mist thins a little and reveals a man with thinning black hair, sitting on a chair on a beach. His back is to me, but I know who it is—my teacher. The man who treated people as slaves. The man who broke my trust. The man who introduced me to my true nature. He says nothing. A gull cries overhead, and waves crash against the shore. I can smell … [Read more...]