by Gill James
weak coffee
They've called up on us again. They always do when
something like this happens. So I get out my colours, my pencils and brushes
and my pallet and I try to paint.
All I can smell as I try to exercise
my art and craft is the linseed oil. The strong tobacco and the rich coffee are
gone because the cafés are shut today. The children aren't playing on the
streets anymore. Even the traffic is subdued. No one goes out unless they have
to.
I can't work. I need the jollity
buzz. It may have gone forever since those fervent believers blew themselves
and a few hundred other people up.
I sigh, and put away my pens and
palette,my colours and my brushes and wish I wasn't an emergency artist.
About the author
Gill James writes fiction for children, young adults and
adults and enjoys writing experiments.
She is published by The Red Telephone and CaféLit, amongst
others. She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing.
She edits for Bridge House, CaféLit, Chapeltown and The Red
Telephone.
She has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative
and Critical Writing
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